THE 


PRINCETON  POETS, 


COMPILED   BY 


S.  MILLER  HAGEMAN. 


PUBLISHED  AT  PRINCETON,  N.  J 


PRINTED   ON   THE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS. 

WILLIAM  S.  SHARP, 
Trenton,  N.  J. 

1879. 


TO 


THE  MEMORY 


OF 


JOSEPH   HENRY; 


THE     POET     OF     SCIENCE, 


For  he  hath  caused  to  be  written  on  the  water,  and 

the  wind,  and  every  whither,   the 

autograph  of  sound. 


943279 


PREFACE. 


I  have  gathered  up  on  this  old  ground  these  literary  relics  which 
I  have  found  about  it,  in  memory  of  notable  men  and  women  who 
have  derived  their  signal  education  at  Princeton,  and  who  must  ever 
belong  most  to  her  by  intellectual  birthright.  Such  memorials  of 
distinguished  merit  have  had  hitherto  but  a  rude  and  casual  keep- 
ing, like  names  cut  carelessly  on  dark  old  forest  trees,  and  read 
only  in  some  stray  gleam  across  them.  It  is  time,  now  that  long 
death  hath  dealt  hardly  with  many  of  them,  that  they  should  be 
redeemed  once  more  into  each  other's  company  in  these  choice 
affections  of  their  gentliest  hours. 

S.  MILLER  HAGEMAN. 
PRINCETON,  May  8th,  1879. 


BLOOD-ROYAL. 


i. 

O  fair  art  thou  Princeton,  by  river  and  tower  ! 
Thy  wide-sounding  bell,  and  thy  dark-ivied  bower; 
O  brave  are  thy  temples  with  book  and  with  throng  ! 
But  to  woman,  fair  woman,  thy  fame  doth  belong. 


II. 

There  is  not  a  Palace  of  Knowledge  on  earth 
That  vies  with  the  genius  of  blood-royal  birth ; 
After  all  we  have  done  when  our  life-dust  is  laid, 
We  are  but  the  men  that  our  mothers  have  made. 


III. 

Thy  glory,  O  Princeton,  thy  glory  we  sing, 

As  thy  fame  o'er  the  world  spreads  her  lore-laden  wing 

But  fairer  for  us  as  we  crown  her  again, 

Stands  woman,  fair  woman,  the  mother  of  men. 


CONTENTS. 


CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND,  1 

The  Return  of  the  Gods ;  Fairy  Mythology ;  Woman's 
Will;  Mine  Own;  Eyes;  The  Lore-lay ;  Translations. 
L.  J.  SHIELDS, 27 

"  In  the  Hollow  of  his  Hand  ; "  Translations. 
ANONYMOUS,      -        - 31 

Silentio.    -J .  ~  t/t  <  //• 
AARON  BURR, 41 

My  Message  Bird. 
MARY  ISABEL  ALLEN, 42 

Knight's  Templar  ;  Jairus'  Daughter  ;  Translations. 
ANONYMOUS, .       .      5| 

"  Drink  to  me  Only  with  Thine  Eyes."   <4>  *&€•  /H 
AMELIA  VANDEVEER, 53 

A  Summer  Idyl ;    Stilled  Voices  ;    Pictures  ;    Nothing 

Else  To-night ;  A  Sabbath  Dream. 
FITZ  HUGH  LUDLOW, 66 

To  the  Home  of  all  Living ;  Niagara ;  A  La  Dame  a 

Voile  Noire ;  Ode  To-night. 
PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE, 75 

Florence  Vane. 
ANONYMOUS,          .     ^.       - 77 

Many  a  Year  Ago.    -•/  Jft*  /V7 
J.  ADDISON  ALEXANDER, 79 

The  Doomed  Man  ;  To  the  Rhine. 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

ANONYMOUS,  -        -        -        ....        .        .        -      85 

Sea  Birds,  Wild  Sea  Birds !     -V-  stt.  /A 
MARY  STACY  WITHINGTON,      --....  88 

Last  Banquet  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra  ;  The  Blooming 
of    the   Cereus;    A   Fantasy;    The    Physical    Basis; 
Without  and  Within  ;  The  Convent  Sisters. 
E.  P.  T.,  100 

I'Giorni  Che  Passan. 
J.  WADDELL  ALEXANDER,        ------         101 

O  Sacred  Head  ! 
ANONYMOUS,  ...        ....        -     105 

The  Porch  and  the  Temple,  -t/  /> -L  •  ^ 
MARGARET  E.  BRECKINRIDGE,  108 

Knitting  for  the  Soldiers. 
HORACE  BINNEY  WALLACE, 110 

On  the  Rhine  Returning  into  Germany. 
ANONYMOUS,      -        -        -        -    «  |i).,|f-'        '        "        •         H2 

The  Prayer  of  the  Fallen ;  'From  the  Bark  of  an  Old 

Tree ;  Cri  De  Passion. 
JOHN  MILLER, 118 

She  is  not  Dead ;  What  is  His  Name  ? ;  Strong  Delusion  ; 

Our  Dead. 
ANONYMOUS, 133 

As  Children  Fold  their  Sleepy  Faces. 
ELIZABETH  HENRY  MILLER, -    136 

O  Distant  Past! 
JAMES  C.  MOFFAT,    - 137 

Extracts  from  "Alwyn;"  Without  Christ, 
LUCIA  D.  PHYCHOWSKA, 148 

Border  of  the  Wilderness. 
HENRY  J.  VAN  DYKE, 149 

Wings  of  a  Dove ;  The  After-echo. 


CONTENT?.  XI 

PAGE. 

LYMAN  WHITNEY  ALLEN, 153 

Art-Cycle  Sonnets ;  Song  of  the  Hell-Spirit ;  Alas  ! 
CORNELIA  PIERSON,  -       -        -        -        -        -        -         159 

Scene  in  a  Studio. 
ELIZABETH  THOMPSON  SMITH, 161 

A  Parting  Word. 
E.  P.  B., 162 

The  Veil  of  the  Spirit. 
ANONYMOUS,  -        - 163 

The  Two  Cities.  ^.  Wi-  *H 
THE  STUDENT-SONG,  168 

Ho,  Students !  Come  Out ! 
CAROLINE  HANNA  PAXTON, 170 

To-    — . 
E.  A.  K., 171 

A  Fragment. 
ALAMBY  MILLER,          __-._„._    173 

To ;  Only  a  Curl ;  I  am  Free  ;  A  Fragment 

ANONYMOUS,      ---------        179 

A  Lost  Soul. 
"RosA," 181 

"  We  Were  Friends  Together." 
ANNIS  STOCKTON  HOWELL,      -       -       -       -       -       -        184 

Recompense. 
GEORGE  W.  BETHUNE,          ..---..    ig6 

It  is  not  Death  to  Die ;  The  Strife  of  the  Angels ;  Night 

Study ;  Dr.  Bethune's  Last  Hymn. 
ANNIS  BOUDINOT  STOCKTON, -         195 

Ode  to  Washington. 
WELLIAM  BAKER, .197 

My  Rock. 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

WILLIAM  W.  LORD,  199 

A  Rime. 
SALLY  CAMPBELL  PRESTON  MILLER, 202 

The  Princess  Louise  :  The  Maiden  All  For-lorne. 
GEORGE  II.  BOKER,  203 

The  Black  Regiment ;  Dirge  for  a  Soldier. 
CARRIE  LOUISE  HAGEMAN, 209 

Beautiful  Sunlight ;  To  a  Lost  Canary. 
GEORGE  L.  RAYMOND,      -        - 213 

Notes  from  the  Victory  ;  The  Destiny  Maker. 
ANONYMOUS, 217 

The  Rapids  at  Niagara. 
ALFRED  D.  WOODHULL, 219 

The  National  Thanksgiving  Hymn. 
FANNIE  WOLCOTT  RANKIN, 221 

The  Berg  and  the  Bark. 
T.  E.  GREEN,    -        -        -  225 

Violets. 
THOMAS  G.  LYTLE,        -  -    227 

Hope  On ;  Patriotism. 
RICHARD  ARNOLD  GREENE, 230 

Pride  and  Humility. 
R.  F.  DUNN,  •    232 

No,  no,  it  is  not  Dying. 
E.  SPENCER  MILLER,        - 233 

Igdrasil ;  The  Dying  Skeptic. 
MALCOLM  MACDONALD, 239 

Excerpts  from  Guatemozin. 
HENRY  CLOW, 242 

Ossian  ;  Lines  on  Leaving  Home. 
ELBERT  S.  PORTER, 245 

A  Threnody. 


CONTENTS.  Xlll 

PAGE. 

T.  E.  GREEN,     -        -  248 

Hesperion  ;  Summer  Time  ;  A  Year  Ago. 
EDITH  COOKE, 252 

A  Thrush's  Song. 
PHILIP  FRENEAU,     - 257 

The  Indian. 
JOHN  T.  DUFFIELD, 259 

Psalm  XC. 
CHARLES  W.  SHIELDS, 263 

The  Triumph  of  Liberty. 
STEPHEN  ALEXANDER, 266 

The  Nation's  Hope. 

HUMOROUS  POETRY. 

C.  G.  LELAND,  273 

Die   Schoene   Witt  we ;    O   Mine   Frack  ist  im  Pfand- 
Haus  ;  Bolitics. 

ANONYMOUS. 277 

Plain  Language  from  the  Irreconcilables  Concerning  a 

Recent  Unpleasantness. 

R.  E.  A.,   -  279 

What  she  said  on  the  Way  Home. 

D.  M.,     -  281 

Variations  on  the  C  String. 
J.  ADDISON  ALEXANDER, 283 

Reconstruction  of  Society ;  To  the  Spirit  of  Dreams. 
FITZ  HUGH  LUDLOAV, 289 

To  a  Red-headed  Girl ;  The  Jolly  Fellow. 


CHAKLES  GODFKEY  LELAND, 

(CLASS  OF  "  .") 

Author  of  "Meister   Karl  Sketch  Book,"  "Sunshine  fr<m  Thought," 

"  Heine,"  "  Pidgin  English,"  "  Hans  Breitman's  Ballads," 

"  Poems,"  "  Gypsies,"  &c.,  &c. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GODS. 


Greece  so  thoroughly  wrought  out  its  conception  of  the  beautiful 
human  animal  as  to  make  an  idol  of  it,  and  in  order  to  glorify  it  on 
earth  they  made  a  divinity  of  it  in  heaven. — The  Philosophy  of  Art. 
(Taine.) 

LIKE  one  who  looks  over  a  city  when  day  is  beginning 

to  break, 
I  look  o'er  the  millioned-homed  age  where  we  live  in 

the  dusk  of  the  dawn  ; — 
Seeing  the  sunlight  on  steeples,  or  edging  the  turrets  and 

towers, 
While  the  streets  and  the  low-lying  houses  are  grey  in 

the  gloaming  or  gloom. 
Light  in  the  eye  of  the  thinker,  light  on  the  brow  of 

the  wise, 
Dimmering  shade  in  the  spirit  of  him  who  is  hopeless 

and  low. 


4  THE   RETURN   OF   THE   GODS. 

Venus,  the  life  of  the  lovely, — soul  of  the  exquisite 

charm  ! 

Thou  hast  done  penance  for  Ages,  as  we  thy  poor  chil- 
dren have  done. 
Short  was  the  carnival  season,  in  the  gay  godland   of 

Greece, 
Few  were  the  guests  at  the  banquet,  brief  was  the  life 

of  the  flowers, 
Long  was  the  Lent  which  came  after,  bitter  the  wailing 

and  woe ; — 
But  the  trial  was  good  for  the  mourners,  it  humbled  the 

cruel  and  proud, 
It   raised  up  the  humble  and  fallen,  gave  spirit  and 

strength  to  the  poor, 
And  is  freeing  from  slavery,  woman,  the  slave  of  all 

ages  gone  by. 

Enough  of  the  sack-cloth  and  ashes,   enough   of  the 

penance  and  pain, 
Enough  of  deep  woe  for  the  Many,  and  feverish  joy 

for  the  Few ; 
Joy  that  defeats  its  own  wishes,  and  struggles  in  hard, 

narrow  rounds, 
Ignoring  the  truth   that  great   pleasure  demands  the 

great  concourse  of  All. 


THE   RETURN   OF   THE   GODS.  5 

O  mother  of  rapture  and  beauty — thou  too  hast  done 

penance  in  grief, 
Thou  didst  rise  from  the  Ocean  in  glory  red  glowing  to 

kiss  the  warm  sun  ! 
Short  were  the  luscious  embraces, — cold  blew  the  wind 

from  the  north, 
Thou  fell'st  in  sad  tears  from  Heaven,  and   on   earth 

wert  a  torrent  of  tears. 


Now  in  comfort  with  justice  and  beauty  and  freedom 

for  woman  and  man, 
Thou  wilt  rise  in  a  rosier  glory,  and  light  every  soul 

with  a  ray. 
For  when  man  shall  have  learned  that  the  spirit  of  sin 

is  but  trespass  and  pain, 
Trespass  and  pain  on  his  fellow,  or  idle  neglect  of  his 

own, 
And  that  pleasure  which  injures  none  other  and  wounds 

not  the  spirit  of  truth, 
Has  nothing  in  common  with  evil,  and   touches  none 

other  but  self, 
Then  thou  wilt  be  with  us,  sweet  mother,  and  charm 

every  soul  with  thy  smile, 
Raising  to  Art  all  our  labor — and  love  be  the  life  of  the 

World. 


6  THE    RETURN   OF   THE   GODS. 

Mars,  the  magnificent   master  of  warfare  with  foes  to 

the  gods, 
Brilliant  and  bold  and  unbending,  thou  too  wilt  rise  on 

with  the  rest, 
For  the  progress  of  Man  is  the  progress  of  gods  in  the 

infinite  scale. 
He  who  lifts  up  the  spear  to  do  battle  lifts  also  the 

pennon  and  steel, 
And  though  the  point  shine  in  the  sunlight  or  gleam  in 

the  glory  of  war, 
Far  over  the  head  of  the  knight  it  must  wait  till  the 

wood  has  been  raised  ; 
While  man  is  deep  buried  in  valleys  his  gods  live  on 

mountains  above, 
When  he  reaches  the  silvery  summits, — they  dwell  in 

the  gold  of  the  sky. 

No  more  the  Messiah  of  murder  will  Mars  be  the  terror 

of  man, 
No  longer  the  dread  of  the  lovely,  the  bravo  exulting 

in  blood. 
For  in  the  great  fight  of  the  Future  our  foes  will  be 

mightier  far 
Than  men  of  mere  sinew,  and  muscle,  those  foes  which 

lie  silent  around ; 


THE    RETURN   OF   THE    GODS.  7 

The  rugged  rock-giants  denying  the  room  for  existence 

to  all, 
The  awful  deep  Dragon  of  Ocean  still  keeping  in  secret 

its  plains, 
And  the  solemn  blue  space  yet  unconquered  which  parts 

us  from  numberless  stars, 
And  the  Fire-Land  which  burns  in  our  centre,  these 

foes  still  await  thee,  O  Mars  ! 

For  the  doctor  who  drives  out  diseases  or  shortens  the 

power  of  death, 
And  the  teacher  who  quickens  the  spirit  and  conquers 

the  darkness  of  crime, 
The  poet,  who  blesses  with  beauty  the  soul  that  was 

gloomy  and  grey, 
The  builder,  the  chemist,  the  workman,  are  warriors 

each  in  their  way  ; 
For  what  were  the  Jotunds  and  Titans  overwhelmed  by 

the  gods  of  the  Past, 
But  the  forces  of  fire  and  of  mountains,  the  giants  we 

are  fighting  to-day. 
Fighting  more  bravely  than  ever,  fighting  with  better 

success : 
O  Mars,  thou  wert  in  the  first  battle — in  the  victory  be 

by  our  side ! 


8  THE   RETURN   OF    THE   GODS. 

I  know  that  the  swift-footed  Hermes  will  soon  be  be- 
loved again, 
For  already  man  finds  with  strange  rapture  he  holds 

more  than  Mercury's  power, 
More  than  the  might  which  was  fabled  to  be  that  of 

Hermes  of  old 
When  he  touches  the  telegraph  deftly  and  talks  over 

oceans  afar, 
As  we  go  faster  in  motion,  faster  in   thought  and  in 

speech, 
Quicker  in  means  of  conveying  and  shortening  the  path 

of  ideas, 
Life  will  be  lengthened   while  growing,  for  thought  is 

the  measure  of  life, 
He  who  speaks  or  does  most  in  a  little  is  Mercury's  son 

and  himself. 

And  with  Labor  and  Love  and  with  conquest  and  speed 
all  the  rest  will  be  won, 

With  Vulcan  and  Venus  and  Ares  and  Hermes  fast 
darting  afar, 

For  Apollo  with  Muses  and  Graces,  the  exquisite  chil- 
dren of  art^ 

And  the  sense  of  the  lovely  in  Nature  as  shown  in  a 
myriad  gods, 


THE    RETURN    OF    THE    GODS. 

All  these  are  just  hovering  around  us  awaiting  a  place 

in  our  hearts, 
Not  as  wearied-out  forms  of  a  worship  which   faded 

long  ages  ago. 
But  as  the  fresh  life  of  all  worship,  renewed  in  Mars' 

faith  in  himself, 
The  man  who  has  risen  to  Greatness   was    never  yet 

wanting  in  gods. 

Do  your  hearts  enter  into  my  meaning,  ye  thinkers  who 

list  to  my  song  ? 
Do  you  feel  that  we  come  to  religion  in  quitting  the 

vulgar  and  mean  ? 
A.nd  that  Man  when  he  lives  in  the  glory  of  conquest 

and  knows  he  is  great 
Soon  learns  that  the  power  of  crushing  the  Time-worn 

means  this, — to  be  free. 
Freedom  with   power  creative,  greatness  with    beauty 

and  love, 
Was,  is  and  shall  be  forever  the  God-like  in  spirit  and 

truth. 
And  be  it  in  smoke  upon  Sinai,  in  temples  and  statues 

in  Greece, 

Or  walking  by  Galilee's  waters,  the  noble  is  ever  a  god, 
Grander  than  Plato  or  Hegel,  greater  than  Bacon  or 

Compte. 


10  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GODS. 

Is  faith  in  a  noble  endeavor,  the  power  to  rise  to  the 

New : 
And  the  scorn  of  the  ancient  Egyptian,  of  Hermes,  for 

those  who  but  live 
For  idle  self-will  and  dull  pleasure, — the  million  who 

nothing  create 
In  the  downward-borne  elements  whirling  away  from  the 

centre  of  God, — 
In  the  first  of  the  wonderful  chapter  long  written  and 

yet  to  be  writ, 

Which  told,  and  will  tell,  how  the  dawning  drove  dark- 
ness away  from  the  world, 
And  how  the  small  sneer  of  the  Devil  was  lost  in  God's 

infinite  smile. 


This  is  the  coming  of  Zeus, — of  Jove,  the  imperial 

lord! 
And  of  Juno,  his  wife  and  his  sister,  the  greatest  are  ever 

akin, — 
That  man  shall  find  out  he  is  noble,  this  knowing  he 

finds  out  a  god, 
And  the  glory  of  God  will  be  with  him  when  dignity 

blesses  his  life ; 
Esculapius  teaches  this  lesson. — The  purest  of  blood  are 

most  free 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GODS.          11 

4 

In  strains,  without  taint  of  disorder  the  nearest  come 

ever  more  near. 
The  souls  which  live  Jove-like  in  calmness,  progress  in 

perfecting  their  type : 
What  Satan  and  folly  have  bidden  will  rise  in  the  ages 

to  come. 


How  shall  we  see  the  immortals,  and  when  shall  we 
know  they  are  come  ? 

In  Greece  we  behold  them  in  statues, — unmoving  im- 
mortals in  stone : 

Closed  in  a  book  in  Judea, — frozen  and  centred  in 
One, 

Blooming  again  into  Many,  which  flowed  from  the 
mythical  Three, 

And  burst  into  wide-flashing  rainbows  of  legend  and 
color  and  song. 

When  the  wonderful  age  medieval  threw  pictures  all 
over  the  world, 

Not  in  statues,  or  books,  or  in  pictures,  or  churches,  or 
legends,  or  song, 

Will  ye  see  the  great  gods  of  your  worship  whose  foot- 
steps are  sounding  afar. 


12          THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GODS. 

» 

Ah,  no; — in  yourselves  \yill  ye  see  them  when  Venus 

shall  favor  your  love, 
And   man,  fitly  mated  with  woman,  believes  that  his 

love  is  divine : 
When  Passion  shall  elevate  Woman   to  something  so 

holy  and  grand, 
That  she  the  ideal  enraptured  shall  ne'er  be  a  check 

upon  man ; 
Then  the  children  they  bear  will  be  holy,  and  Beauty 

shall  make  them  her  own, 
And  Man  in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbor  will  gaze  on  the 

reflex  divine. 
Of  the  God  he  inclines  to  in  spirit — or  trace  in  each 

feature  and  limb, 
The  lines  which  the  body  inherits  from  souls  that  are 

noble  and  true. 


Would  thou  could7 st  feel  in  deep  earnest  how  beautiful 
God  will  be  then, 

When  we  see  him  as  Jove  or  Apollo  in  men  who  inspire 
us  with  love, 

As  Jambres  and  Venus  the  holy  in  women,  who  know 
not  the  mean, 

And  feel  not  the  influence  cruel,  of  hardness  and  self- 
love  and  scorn ; 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GODS.          13 

Would  thou  could'st  once  know  how  real  the  presence 
of  God  will  become, 

How  earnest,  and  ever  more  earnest,  thy  faith  when  thy- 
self shall  be  great, 

And  from  the  true  worship  of  others  thou'lt  learn  what 
is  holy  in  them, 

And  rise  to  the  infinite  fountain  of  glory  which  flows 
in  us  all. 


But  when  shall  we  see  the  Immortals?     Believe  me 

whenever  we  will, 
They  are  near  us,  around  us,  within  us,  awaiting  our 

wish  and  our  word, 
More  than  thy  dreams  ever  pictured,  more  than   thy 

heart  ever  dreamed, 

Will  pour  increasing  abundance  on  him  who  has  free- 
dom and  faith ; 
Freedom   from  meanness  and   harshness,   faith  in  the 

God  hood  within — 
The  ore  lies  before  us  in   mountains,  weVe  power  to 

change  it  to  gold  ; — 
Be  to  thyself  what  thou  lovest,  and  others  will  be  unto 

thee 
What  thou  wilt.     When  in  God  thou  believest,  near 

God  thou  wilt  certainly  be. 


[From  the  Meister  Karl.  ] 

GHOST-LAND. 

FAIRY    MYTHOLOGY. 


All  over  doth  this  outer  earth 

An  inner  earth  enfold ; 
And  sounds  may  reach  us  of  its  mirth 

Over  its  pales  of  gold. 
There  spirits  dwell — unwedded  all 

From  the  shapes  and  shades  they  wore  ; 
Though  oft  their  silent  footsteps  fall 

By  the  hearth  they  loved  before. 
We  mark  them  not,  nor  hear  the  sound 
They  make  in  circling  all  around; 

Their  bidding  sweet  and  voiceless  prayer 

Float  without  echo  in  the  air. 
Yet,  often  in  unworldly  places, 

Soft  sorrow's  twilight  vales, 
We  meet  them  with  uncovered  faces, 

Outside  their  golden  pales  ; 


GHOST-LAND.  15 

Yet,  dim  as  they  must  ever  be, 
Like  ships  far  off,  and  out  at  sea, 
With  the  sun  upon  their  sails. 

And  he  who  once  hath  raised  his  eyes 

Oh,  soul  of  love,  to  thee  ! 
From  -that  day  forth,  beneath  the  skies, 

No  other  sight  can  see. 


WOMAN'S  WILL. 


Con  la  muger  y  el  dinero, 
No  te  buries,  companero. 


MANY  a  charm  is  round  thee, 

Many  a  spell  hath  bound  thee, 
Though  awhile  I'll  give  thee  leave  to  range. 

Soon,  thy  wild  flight  over, 

Soon,  no  more  a  lover, 
Back  thou'lt  fly  and  never  dare  to  change. 

If  thou  wilt,  go,  flatter 

Here  and  there  to  utter 
Burning  words  to  all,  with  wanton  will. 

But — thou  can'st  not  leave  me, 

No — nor  once  deceive  me, 
And  in  chains  I  hold  thee  captive  still. 

To  some  love  enchanting, 

Every  favor  granting, 
Go  and  sigh — I  bid  thee — 'tis  in  vain  ! 

For  no  woman  clever 

Lost  a  lover  ever, 
When  she  willed  to  hold  him  in  her  chain. 


17 


She  who's  sure  of  winning, 

When  the  game's  beginning 
Throws  away  of  course  a  stake  or  two ; 

But  when  higher  aiming, 

Bent  on  bolder  gaming, 

Back  they  come,  and  then  she  holds  them  true. 
B 


MINE  OWN. 


And  O  the  longing  burning  eyes  ! 

And  O  the  gleaming  hair ! 
Which  waves  around  me  night  and  day, 

O'er  chamber  hall  and  stair. 


And  O  the  step  half  dreamt,  half  heard, 

And  O  the  laughter  low ; 
And  memories  of  merriment 

Which  faded  long  ago. 

And  some  do  call  me  Wantonness, 
And  some  do  call  me  Wine : — 

O,  they  might  call  me  what  they  would 
If  thou  wert  only  mine  ! 

And  some  do  call  me  Life  sweetheart, 
And  some  do  call  me  Death : 

And  he  to  whom  the  two  are  one 
Hath  won  my  heart  and  faith. 


MINE    OWN.  19 

She  twined  her  white  arms  round  his  neck, 

The  tears  fell  down  like  rain ; 
"And  if  I  live  or  if  I  die 
We'll  never  part  again." 


EYES. 

Eternal  eyes  of  wonder, 

How  gloriously  they  rolled ; 

Like  two  black  storm-lakes  under 
An  autumn-forest  of  gold. 


THE  LORE-LAY. 


[German,  of  Heine. ,] 

I  know  not  what  sorrow  is  o'er  me, 
What  spell  is  upon  my  heart, 

But  a  tale  of  old  times  is  before  me, 
A  legend  that  will  not  depart. 

Night  falls  as  I  linger  dreaming, 
And  calmly  flows  the  Rhine ; 

The  peaks  of  the  hills  are  gleaming 
In  the  golden  sunset-shine. 

A  wondrous  lovely  maiden 

Sits  high  in  glory  there ; 
Her  robe  with  gems  is  laden, 

And  she  combs  her  golden  hair. 

And  she  spreads  out  the  golden  treasures, 

Still  singing  in  harmony ; 
And  the  song  has  a  mystical  measure 

And  a  wonderful  melody. 


22  THE    LORE-LAY. 

The  boatman  when  once  she  has  bound  him, 

Is  lost  in  a  wild  sad  love ; 
He  sees  not  the  rocks  around  him, 

He  sees  but  the  beauty  above. 

I  believe  that  the  billow  springing 
The  boat  and  the  sailor  drown  ; — 

And  all  that,  with  her  magical  singing, 
The  Lore-lay  has  done. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


[German  of  Heine.] 

Wait,  oh  wait,  impatient  sailor, 
Fast  enough  my  footsteps  stir ; 

From  two  maidens  I  am  parting — 
From  Europa  and  from  her. 


Lovely  cradle  of  my  sorrow  ! 

Lovely  tomb  of  peace  to  me ! 
Lovely  town,  we  part  to-morrow, 

And  farewell, — I  cry  to  thee. 

Sacred  home, — you'll  see  me  never — 
Nevermore  where  she  has  strayed ; 

Home,  farewell, — we  part  forever, 
Where  I  first  beheld  the  maid. 


SUNSET. 


Die  gliibend  rothe  sonne  steigt. 


[German  of  Heine.'] 

The  sun  in  crimson. glory  falls 

Down  to  the  broad  up-quivering 

Gray  and  silvery  ocean- world. 

Airy  figures,  warm  in  rosy  light, 

Wave-like  roll  after; — while  eastward  rising 

From  autumn-like  darkening  veils  of  vapor, 

With  sorrowful  death-pale  features, 

Breaks  the  silent  moon. 

Like  sparks  of  light  behind  her 

Cloud  distant,  glimmer  the  planets. 

Once  there  shone  in  Heaven, 

Nobly  united, 

Luna,  the  goddess,  and  Sol,  the  god, 
And  the  bright-thronging  stars  in  light 

Swam  round  them, 
Their  little  and  innocent  children. 
But  evil  tongues  came  whispering  quarrels, 


SUNSET.  25 

And  they  parted  in  anger, 

The  mighty,  light-giving  spouses. — 

Now  in  the  daytime,  in  loveliest  light, 

The  sun-god  walks  yonder  in  glory — 

All  for  his  lordliness. 

Ever  prayed  to  and  sung  by  many, 

By  haughty,  heartless,  prosperous  mortals — 

But  still  by  night 

In  Heaven  wanders  Luna, 

The  wretched  mother, 

With  all  her  orphaned  starry  children, 

And  she  shines  in  silent  sorrow, 

And  soft-loving  maidens  and  gentle  poets 

Offer  her  songs,  and  their  sorrows. 


L.  J.  SHIELDS. 


"IN  THE  HOLLOW  OF  HIS  HAND." 


The  great  and  restless  ocean  rolls 

Resistless  on  the  sand, 
Yet  every  wave  is  measured  in 

The  hollow  of  His  hand. 

Each  separate  drop  that  teems  with  life, 

Each  billow  far  from  land, 
Or  angry  "crested-breaker,  knows 

The  hollow  of  His  hand. 

Help  us,  O  Lord,  for  faith  grows  dim ; 

We  do  not  understand  ; 
Our  seas  of  woe  sure  must  overflow 

The  hollow  of  Thy  hand. 

Teach  us  that  all  are  measured  there, 
A  sounding  deep  and  grand ; 

There  are  no  depths  of  grief  without 
The  hollow  of  Thy  hand. 


IN   THE   HOLLOW   OF   HIS    HAND.  27 

Each  throb  of  woe,  each  weary  pain 

Of  head,  or  heart,  or  hand, 
The  long-drawn  hours  of  sickness — all 

Are  measured  in  Thv  hand. 


These  waves  can  never  rise  too  high, 
For  Thou  wilt  help  us  stand. 

Dear  Lord,  we  cast  our  burdens  in 
The  hollow  of  Thy  hand. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


[From  Heine.'] 

They  loved  so  well, — yet  neither 
Would  have  the  other  know ; 

They  met  as  foes — yet  either 
For  love  would  life  forego. 

They  parted,  and  met  never, 
Save  in  the  dear  dream-land. — 

They  died,  and  still  as  ever, 
They  do  not  understand. 

[From  Heine.~\ 

A  noble  fir  tree  lonely  stands 
On  northern  height  so  cold ; 

He  sleeps, — all  covered  deep  with  snow, 
And  decked  with  icy  fold. 

His  dreams  are  of  a  lovely  palm 

Far  in  the  summer  land, 
That  drear  and  lone  all  sadly  stands 

By  rock  and  burning  sand. 


TRANSLATIONS.  29 


[From  Seine.'] 

My  songs  have  all  been  blighted, — 
How  could  they  live  with  strife  ? 

Thou  hast  poured  a  burning  poison 
On  the  blossom  of  ray  life. 

My  songs  have  all  been  poisoned, — 
How  could  they  but  depart? 

With  so  many,  many  serpents 
And  thee  within  my  heart. 


THE  LILY  AND  THE  MOONBEAM. 


[From  the  German.'] 

The  moon  hangs  in  the  dusky  night, 

All  silver-clear  above, 
And  pours  the  splendor  of  her  light 

On  streamlet  and  on  grove. 

From  sweetest  dream  she  rouses  up 

The  lily,  tenderly, 
And  opes  its  little  snowy  cup 

To  set  the  fragrance  free. 


30  TRANSLATIONS. 

The  fairest  moonbeam  ever  seen 
Glides  in  that  open  breast, 

And  nestles  'neath  the  tender  screen 
With  thousand  kisses  pressed. 

Then  closes  tight  the  beauteous  flower, 
And  holds  the  wooer  fast, 

Who,  resting  in  the  lily  bower, 
Finds  peace  and  joy  at  last. 

Next  morning  when  the  shepherdess, 
With  merry,  childish  zest, 

The  lily  plucks  in  eagerness, 
And  clasps  it  to  her  breast ; 

Then,  when  the  chalice  opened  lies, 
She  feels  a  wondrous  pain, — 

An  unknown  longing  quickly  flies 
Through  every  glowing  vein. 

Now  wandering  through  the  leafy  bower 
She  sighs,  the  livelong  night : 

Say  ?  did  the  moonbeam  in  the  flower 
Work  out  its  spell  aright  ? 


SILENTIO. 


Slowly  climb  the  moon-fringed  mountains,  like  a  stair- 
way to  the  sky, 

Slowly  each  white  cloud  ascending  seems  a  soul  that 
passed  on  high ; 

Summits  billowing  after  summits  grander  and  still 
grander  grow, 

Till  they  break  in  awful  silence  on  a  glittering  strand 
of  snow. 


Silent  cataract  of  summits,  stiffened  on  thy  frozen 
verge, 

Thundering  down  in  deafening  silence  to  thy  adaman- 
tine surge ; 

Motionless,  yet  grandly  moving,  seems  thy  avalanche 
of  stone, 

Silenceniatus  be  thou  everlasting  on  thy  solitary  throne. 

At  thy  base  the  swirling  river  chatters  idly  to  the  clod, 
At  thy  brow  thy  head  is  lifted  through  the  veil  to  talk 
with  God, 


32  SILENTIO. 

Prophet-like  with  mantle  folded  round  thy  dread  and 

spectral  form, 
Far  below  thee  screams  the  eagle,  far  below  thee  raves 

the  storm. 


Greatness  lies  insphered  in  silence,  littleness  to  sound  is 

stirred, 
All  the  grandest  things  in  nature  never  have  been  seen 

or  heard ; 
Proving  down  by  printless  logic  all  the  science  of  the 

school, 
Silence  is  the  law  of  being,  sound  the  breaking  of  the 

rule. 


Wind  was  flourishing  its   trumpets,  but  th'  embattled 

air  is  still, 
Streams  were  roaring  down  the  gorges  they  have  thrided 

to  a  rill, 
Thunder  charioted  the  Heavens,  but  its  rumbling  wheels 

have  sped, 
Man  was  talking  to  his  fellow,  but  the  man  grew  dumb 

and  dead. 


SILENTIO.  33 

Far  into  the  past  I  wandered,  paused  within  its  mellow 

clime, 
Where  the  Lethean  years  were  crossing  at  the  Jabbok- 

ford  of  time. 
Felt   the   boundaries   of  being   sink   around    me   into 

space, 
Listened — but  could  hear  no  echo,  looked — but  saw  nor 

form  nor  face. 


Noiselessly   the   round    creation    slowly   rose   into   its 

place, 
Like  the  moon  at  night  ascending  up  the  star-sloped 

stairs  of  space ; 
To  its  walls  there  came  no  workman,  to  its  towers  no 

touch  of  hand, 
Without   sound   like   some   great  palm-tree  spreading 

over  sea  and  land. 


What  is  history?    half-blown  silence  lifting  leaf  by  leaf 

its  bud, 
Be  it  read  by  book  or  battle,  be  it  traced  by  drops  of 

blood : 

Providence  the  perfect  poem  of  a  God  whose  life  is  love 
Set  on  earth  to  seeming  discord,  set  to  music  far  above. 

C 


34  SILENTIO. 

Silence  on  the  palid  face-cloth,  silence  on  the  snowy 

grave, 
Silence   on   the   sleeping    city — silence   far   below   the 

wave, — 
Silence  as  of  music  slumbering  on  her  harp  within  the 

deep : — 
Sound  is  but  the  dream  of  silence,  silence  talking  in  its 

sleep. 


Once  my  heated  soul  was  looking  from  the  window  of 

its  hope, 
And  before  it  lay  life's  landscape,  and  the  sun  was  on 

the  slope ; 

Far  I  leaned  into  the  future,  from  the  old  into  the  new, 
But  my  breath  hath  blurred  the  glass,  and  stained  the 

vision  from  my  view. 


Hear  a  broken  voice  within  thee  struggling  with  the 

perfect  will, 
Hush  it  in  the  strong  submission  of  thy  spirit  and  "  be 

still :" 
Stillness  in  which  thou  shalt  hear  the  falling  of  a  lifted 

rod, 
Stillness  in  which  thou  shalt  hear  the  full-orbed  whisper 

of  a  God. 


SILENTIO.  35 

Somewhere  on  this  shipwrecked  planet,  in  the  mist  of 

years  to  be, 
In  the  silence,  in  the  shadow,  waits  a  loving  heart  for 

thee; 
Somewhere !     Where  art  thou,  O  spectre  of  illimitable 

space  ? 
Silent  sphere  without  a  shadow,  silent  sphere  without  a 

place. 

Break,  O  break  this  bitter  silence,  speak  unto  me  once 

again ! 
Tell  me,  shall  I  e'er  behold  thee  ?   tell  me,  do  I  wait  in 

vain? 

0  my  mother !  O  my  mother !  ship  beneaped  on  foreign 

shore ; — 
Answerless  the  air  around  me,  answerless  forevermore. 

1  shall  slumber,  but  it  recks  not  where  my  lonely  grave 

be  made, 
Whether  you  and  I  together  in  a  kindred  ground  are 

laid: 
I  shall  slumber,  but  it  recks  not  who  shall  touch  me  in 

the  gloom  : 
Twins  that  sleep  within  the  cradle  are  not  twins  within 

the  tomb. 


36  SILENT1O. 

All  things  yet  shall  work  together,  and  so  working  orb 

in  one, 
As  the  sun  takes  back  his  sunbeams,  when  the  dial-day 

is  done. 
All  things  yet  shall  ripen  roundly,  and  unite  and  shape 

and  climb 
Into  truth's  great  golden  unit  in  the  long  result  of  time. 


Wisdom  ripens  unto  silence  as  she  grows  more  truly 

wise, 
And  she  wears  a  mellow  sadness  in  her  heart  and  in 

her  eyes : 
Wisdom  ripens  unto  silence,  and  the  lesson  she  doth 

teach, 
Is  that  life  is  more  than  language,  and  that  thought  is 

more  than  speech. 


What  is  truth?     Thy  jeweled  finger  points  like  light 

with  swerveless  trend, 
From  the  Orient  of  knowledge  down  the  path  that  hath 

no  end : 
What  is  truth  ?     Religion  ponders,  science  strains  her 

listening  ears — 
Through  the  fallow  of  the  future  break  the  seeds  of 

silent  years. 


SILENTIO.  37 

Faith  is  but  an  idle  canvas  flapping  on  an  idle  mast, 
If  it  be  not  found  within  thee  as  the  work  of  life  at 

last; 
Dotaged  faith  is  but  a  fancy — he  who  waits  that  dream 

is  lost, 
And  his  creed  a  cursed   millstone,  and  his  God  a  chilly 

ghost. 


Very  like  the  soul  is  sleeping  soundly  underneath  the 

sod — 
Very  like   the  soul  is  walking   softly  overhead    with 

God- 
Likelihood  alone  is  certain.     Who  shall  s*peak  while 

God  is  dumb  ? 
Credent  doubt  is  but  the  shadow  of  the  larger  faith  to 

come. 


O  thou  strong  and  sacred  silence,  self-contained  in  self- 
control  ; 

O  thou  palliating  silence,  Sabbath  art  thou  of  the  soul : 

Like  snow  upon  my  virtues  lie  like  dust  upon  my 
faults, 

Silent  when  the  world  dethrones  me,  silent  when  the 
world  exalts. 


38  SILENTIO. 

Tamper  not  with  idle  rumor  lest  the  truth  appear  to  lie, 
Carve  thy  life  to  hilted  silence,  wrong  shall  fall  on  it 

and  die : 
Tamper  not  with  accusation,  harvest  not  what  thou  hast 

heard, 
Christ  stood  in  the  Court  of  Pilate,  but  he  answered 

not  a  word. 


Silence  is  the  voice  of  spirit,  silence  is  the  voice  of  God, 
Since  He  said  "  Go  preach  My  gospel "  he  hath  never 

spoken  word : 
Many  a  power  since  then  hath  perished,  many  a  charm 

hath  lost  its  spell, 
But  that  ever-silent  spirit  still  on  earth  is  ruling  well. 


Spoken  to  but  never  speaking,  dimly  felt  but  never 

found. 

Silence  after  every  prayer,  silence  after  every  sound, 
Can  it  be  we  pour  our  spirits  out  into  a  godless  air? 
Can,  oh  can  it  be  that  death  shall  drift  us  over  to 

despair  ? 


SILENTIO.  39 

Dips  the  white  sail  of  my  spirit  down  the  trending  sea 

of  death, — 

Silent  sea  without  a  ripple,  save  the  ripple  of  a  breath, 
Moving  out  for  pass  or  shipwreck  without  signal,  gun, 

or  light, 
To  the  phantom-pilot  rounding  on   the   misty  reef  of 

night. 


Turn  me  on  my  fevered  pillow,  for  the  night  is  turning 
too, 

I  will  bolster  up  my  courage,  I  will  see  what  death 
can  do — 

Death  whose  spectre  stalks  so  coldly.  What  is  death  ? 
(we  do  thee  wrong), 

But  life  stopping  in  its  singing  to  take  breath  for  end- 
less song. 


At  the  centre  of  creation  lies  a  spot  of  summer  rest, 
Where  the  silent  spirit  broodeth  like  a  white  dove  on 

its  nest : 
Round  it  runs  the  deep  horizon    in  its  golden   quiet 

curled, 
Round  it  at  the  wheel  of  motion  spins  the  fashion  of 

the  world. 


40  SILENTIO. 

Ever  after  mortal  effort,  ever  after  mortal  pains, 
Something  to  which  light  is  shadow,  something  unex- 
pressed remains. 

Ever  after  human  question,  ever  after  human  quest, 
Something  farther  than  the  farthest,  something  better 
than  the  best. 

God  shall  keep  the  sparkless  secret  of  the  silence  in  His 

heart, 
Through  the  crescent  years  of  knowledge,  through  the 

golden  days  of  art: 
Silent  heart,  whose  birthless  beatings  throb  so  softly  in 

their  place, 
That  God  cannot  hear  himself  in  all  the  continent  of 

space. 


AAEON  BUKK, 

(CLASS  OF  "  1772.") 

MY  MESSAGE-BIKD. 


[From  the  Round  Table.] 

Wing,  wing  thy  flight,  my  faithful  message  bird 
To  her  I  may  not  seek — sh'll  welcome  thee ; 

Take  to  her  heart  this  tale  which  thou  hast  heard 
Fall  from  her  lips,  so  oft  alone  with  me. 

Fly,  fly,  nor  stop  to  rest  thy  aching  wing, 

'TVill  weary  not  as  tires  my  heart  the  while ; 

Breathe  in  her  ear  that  she  may  bid  thee  bring 
Back  to  my  waiting  lips  a  kiss  or  smile. 

Haste,  haste,  sweet  messenger,  take  wing  and  start, 
And  in  thy  absence  think  how  I  must  burn ; 

But  stay, — drop  in  her  breast  this  throbbing  heart, 
And  bring  back  hers,  or  nevermore  return. 


MAEY  ISABEL  ALLEN. 

KNIGHTS  TEMPLAR. 


The  Templar-Knights  are  laid  to  rest — 
In  sign  of  what  they  loved  the  best, 
Their  hands  are  crossed  upon  their  breast. 

They  march  no  more  to  Palestine, 
Nor  quaff  her  purple,  sacred  wine, 
Nor  watch  her  glowing  suns  decline. 

To  guard  their  Lord's  beloved  fane 
No  more  they  cross  the  surging  main, 
Nor  redden  with  their  blood  the  plain. 

We  love  to  turn  the  storied  page 
And  read  the  battles  they  did  wage 
In  distant  mediaeval  age. 

To  turn  to  lady's  bower  they  left, — 
Perchance  by  some  wild  crag,  or  cleft 
In  mountain  side  by  lightning  reft. 


KNIGHTS   TEMPLAR.  43 

To  see  in  some  ancestral  hall 
Stern  armor  hanging  on  the  wall — 
And  light  of  romance  over  all. 

To  hear  the  harper's  notes  resound, — 
And  while  the  vassals  gather  round, 
To  list  of  that  far  battle-ground. 

But  are  there  left  no  Knights  ?     A  few 
Unswerving  hearts  with  purpose  true 
Might  right  all  wrongs,  all  chains  undo. 

Is  not  Christ's  tomb  to  us  as  dear 

As  though  we  kept  with  lance  and  spear 

Its  portals  through  the  changing  year  ? 

Hath  past  the  golden  age  of  faith, 
When,  with  her  name  on  failing  breath, 
Men  showed  they  loved  her  to  the  death  ? 

No, — Faith  still  lives,  and  Christ,  we  see, 
Must  served  be  far  diiferently — 
We  fight  for  all  humanity. 


44  KNIGHTS   TEMPLAR. 


In  caring  for  all  souls  oppressed, 
And  leading  them  to  peace  and  rest, 
We  follow  still  our  Lord's  behest. 


The  Templar  once  might  guard  His  tomb — 
We  guide  the  pilgrim  through  life's  gloom 
Towards  the  Heavens  whence  He  shall  come. 


We  throw  our  lance  for  all  mankind — 

And  he  indeed  can  be  but  blind 

Who  doth  not  still  true  knighthood  find. 


JAIRUS'  DAUGHTER. 


The  little  maid  bad  died,  believing  that  the  Christ  would 

come, 

Bringing  with  His  presence  healing  to  her  home. 
And  now  the  Master  enters,  turns  to  those  who  weep, 
And  speaks  these  words  for  all  the  ages, — "  Death  is  but 

a  sleep." 

And  so  from  death's  dark  slumber,  and  with  no  surprise, 
Her  eyes  she  opened,  hearing  Christ  say  softly,  "  Maid, 

arise." 
For  this  was  not  a  stranger — she  had  listened  for  His 

feet 
In  quiet  expectation,  till  her  heart  had  ceased  to  beat. 

And  we  had  dear  ones  who  believed  the  Master's  care 
Was  such,  that  ev?n  in  death  they  did  not  know  despair. 
In  faith  and  hope  sublime  they  closed  their  patient 

eyes : — 
His  foot  was  on  the  threshold — He  would  say,  "  Arise." 


NIGHTS  IN  JUNE. 


[From  the  French  of  Victor  Hugo.] 

In  summer  when  the  day  hath  fled,  clad  in  verdure  and 
in  flowers 

Sends  the  plain  full  many  a  mile  away,  the  fragrance  of 
her  bowers. 

With  eyes  half-closed  and  every  sense  by  lightest  mur- 
mur stirred, 

Transparent  is  our  slumber  like  the  sleep  of  any  bird. 

Then  the  stars  are  brighter,  purer,  and  the  shadows 

softer  lie, 
And  the  dawning   pale   and  tender  seems  to  wander 

'neath  the  sky, 
Watching  all  the  vague  half-lights  that  tint  Heaven's 

distant  dome — 
Waiting  long  and  patiently — waiting  for  her  hour  to 

come. 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  ST.  JUST. 


Charles  V.  retired  to  the  Monastery  of  St.  Just,  in  Estramadura, 
in  the  north  of  Spain,  and  there  ended  his  days. 

[From  the  German  of  Count  von  Platen.] 

Night  falls — the  storm-winds  ceaseless  roar — 
Ye  Spanish  friars  open  to  me  your  door. 


Let  me  rest  here  till  the  matin -bell 

Shall  call  to  prayer,  and  the  anthem's  swell. 


Prepare  for  me,  with  pious  grace, 
A  brother's  dress — a  burial-place. 


Grudge  not  a  cell  to  one  of  royal  line 
The  land  of  half  this  world  was  mine. 


This  head  I  offer  for  the  tonsure's  shears 
Hath  worn  a  crown  through  weary  years. 


48        .  THE   PILGEIM   OF  ST.    JUST. 


Imperial  ermine  graced  the  form 
That  seeks  a  shelter  from  the  storm. 


I  see  Death  beckon — hear  him  call — 
And,  like  my  kingdom,  into  ruin  fall. 


THE  ROSE  AND  THE  GRAVE. 


[From  the  French  of  Victor  Hugo.'] 

The  grave  said  to  the  pale  blush-rose, 

"  What  dost  thou,  fairest  flower  that  grows, 

With  mist  and  dew  that  water  thee  ?  " 
The  rose  looked  up  and  made  reply, 
"What  doest  thou  with  those  who  lie 

Within  thy  vaults,  all  hopelessly  ?  " 


The  rose  said,  "  Sombre  grave,  I  know 
That  all  these  tears  of  grief  must  go 

To  make  my  perfume  strong  and  sweet." 
The  tomb  said,  "  Holy  souls  I  take, 
And  of  them  angel-spirits  make, 

To  rise  one  day  with  winged  feet." 
D 


MADRIGAL. 


[From  the  Italian  of  Menage  to  Madame  de  La  Fayette.~] 

Ah,  vainly  Phillis,  wouldst  thou  ask 
How  long  shall  last  my  love  for  thee ! 

To  answer  were  too  hard  a  task : — 

Who  knows  when  death  shall  set  me  free  ? 


ANONYMOUS. 
"DRINK  TO  ME  ONLY  WITH  THINE  EYES." 


Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

O  lovely  damozel ! 
No  goblet  quaffed  beneath  the  skies, 

Boasts  wine  I  love  so  well. 


Thy  bare,  thy  beautiful  white  arm, 

Thy  bosom's  fall  and  rise, 
Thy  voice  that  hath  such  power  to  charm, 

But  O  thine  eyes,  thine  eyes ! 

Those  sweet  inebriating  eyes, 

Cupbearers  to  the  soul, 
Work  in  me  stronger  spell  than  lies, 

Within  the  dizzy  boAvl. 

O  deep  exhilarating  thrill 

That  warms  me  to  the  heart, 
Go,  reveler,  haste  fresh  cups  to  fill, 

This  draught  will  not  depart. 


52     "DRINK  TO  ME  ONLY  WITH  THINE  EYES/' 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

O  lovely  damozel ! 
And  let  me  feel  my  spirit  rise, 

Upon  the  working  spell. 


AMELIA  VAN  DEE  VEER. 

THEN  AND  NOW. 


A   SUMMER   IDYL. 


All  through  the  slowly-gliding  afternoon, 
Under  the  wide,  blue  wonder  of  the  June, 
That  like  the  motherlook  in  some  fair  face, 
Broods  over  it  with  gentle  warmth  and  grace, 
Stirred  only  here  and  there  by  passing  feet, 
Drowses  and  dreams  the  pleasant  village  street 

Silent  and  cool  like  a  cathedral  aisle, — 
And  rich  mosaics  wrought  of  sunbeams'  smile, 
And  shadows'  tender  gloom  pave  the  long  way ; 
Now  and  then  a  wood-robin's  ringing  lay 
Floats  through  the  silence,  as  if  echoes  fell 
Across  still  waters  from  a  distant  bell. 


Out  beyond  where  the  elms  and  lindens  meet, 
In  dainty  clasp  above  the  village  street, 


54  THEN   AND   NOW. 

As  if  fair  faces  through  an  open  door 
Looked,  and  fair  hands  waved  to  another  shore, 
The  crimson  glory  of  the  sunset  streams, 
Wooing  one  from  this  lotus-land  of  dreams. 

Toward  the  red  west  the  winding  pathway  goes 
Thro*  velvet  grasses,  a  white  line  it  grows, 
And  all  the  infinite  of  Summer  sky, 
And  earth's  untarnished  green  about  it  lie. 
O  perfect  hour !  can  there  be  anywhere 
Bowers  where  faded  leaves  and  flowers  are  ? 


All  the  wide  air  is  fragrant,  fresh  and  still, 
Yet  tremulous  with  the  deep  throb  and  thrill 
Of  holy  presence,  as  if  God  had  stood 
Here,  and  pronounced  this  new  creation  "  good," 
As  in  that  first  fair  Summer-time,  whose  birth 
The  morning  stars  greeted  with  song  to  earth. 

Brimful  with  evening's  dusky  red  and  gold, 
Like  stately  urns  that  ruddy  liquids  hold, 
On  the  hill  stands  the  row  of  regal  pines ; 
Up  and  down  where  a  tangle  of  lush  vines 
Falls  from  it,  lies  the  path ;  shallow  and  wide 
Below  the  brook  goes  with  its  languid  glide, 


THEN   AND   NOW.  55 

Flushed  rosily,  like  a  child's  face  in  sleep ; 
Under  the  arched  bridge  pools  lie  clear  and  deep 
In  the  brown  shadows ;  beyond,  smooth  and  slow 
Between  the  dipping  trees  the  waters  flow 
With  white  glints  ;  by  the  old  mill  wheel  at  rest 
The  path  goes  on  into  the  glowing  west. 

Long  ago,  long  ago  in  another  June, — 

Young  hearts  and  the  young  summer-time  in  tune — 

On  this  same  path  beyond  the  shady  town 

Two  walked,  a  youth  and  maiden,  up  and  down 

Together  by  the  brook ;    t'was  morning  then  ; 

With  little  flashing  leaps  the  waters  ran 

Chased  by  light  breezes ;  how  the  clear  air  rang 
With  the  gay  songs  red-breasted  robins  sang: 
How  the  dews  sparkled,  and  the  ambient  blue 
And  gold  of  June  with  glory  girt  those  two ; 
Their  life  was  in  its  buoyant,  glowing  June, 
Morning  so  far,  so  far  from  afternoon. 

And  lightly  down  the  winding  path  they  walked, 
The  youth  and  maiden,  and  as  lightly  talked ; 
Laughter  and  banter,  jest  and  repartee, 
With  the  brook's  chatter  blended  gleefully, — 


56  THEN    AND    NOW. 

Yet  the  brook  had  its  low,  sweet  undertone 
That  the  vine  bending  to  it  heard  alone. 

And  those  two  walking  in  the  summer  weather, 
By  the  bright  waters  down  the  path  together, 
Talking  so  lightly,  did  not  each  heart  hear 
Undertones  of  the  other  heart  anear  ? 
Perchance, — and  yet,  and  yet  the  story  old, 
So  many  Junes  have  heard  remained  untold. 

O  memory,  how  often  thou  art  but 
Another  word  for  a  life-long  regret ! 
To  a  thing  of  the  past  silently  grew 
That  blithe  June  morning,  and  between  those  two 
Pitiless  seas  came,  and  no  more  together 
They  roamed,   the   youth  and    maid,  in  Summer 
weather. 


One  walking  down  the  old  path  now  alone 
In  the  rich  wine-light,  hears  like  a  low  moan 
The  whispering  brook,  and  watching  dreamily 
The  day's  fair  dying,  thinks  Ah  me !  Ah  me ! 
That  other  June,  how  long,  how  long  ago ! — 
T'was  morning  then,  and  it  is  evening  now. 


STILLED  VOICES. 


We  hearken  for  them  in  the  dreary  silence 
That  falls  with  the  long  shadows  of  the  years ; 

Woo  them,  with  tones  from  anguished  spirits  starting, 
Tremulous,  passionate,  with  hopeless  tears. 

We  sit  apart  in  lonely,  shady  places, 

Listening,  listening  in  the  twilight  gloom ; 

Sometimes  soft  footfalls  glide  in  with  the  shadows, 
And  the  stilled  voices  float  across  the  room. 


They  are  but  echoes  stirred  in  memory's  chamber, 
As  if  one  strayed  thro'  festive  halls,  where  glee 

And  lights  and  music  in  white  day  had  vanished, 
And  dreamed  he  heard  the  past  night's  revery. 

We  walk  in  crowded  ways,  and  song  and  laughter 
Sweep  by  with  passion  undertoned  or  pain ; 

Yet  there's  a  missing  part  in  this  world-chorus 
We  ever  wait  and  listen  for  in  vain. 


58  STILLED   VOICES. 

We  tread  the  green  home-paths  worn  and  familiar, 
And  rest  in  wonted  bowers;  but  they  have  grown 

Wintry  and  wan,  palled  in  a  stirless  silence, 
With  the  familiar  voices  from  them  flown. 

There  is  a  blue  sea  stretching  far,  relentless, 
And  mocking,  with  its  deep,  defiant  roar, 

Hearts  that  on  this  side  wearily  are  yearning 
To  hear  the  voices  on  the  other  shore. 

There  is  a  blue  sky  calmly  doming  over 

Green  waves  of  earth  which  buried  treasures  keep ; 
Lips  that  spoke  pet  names  once  the  grasses  cover, 

Desolate  ones  left  here  above  them  weep. 

Clasped  hands  are  lifted  to  that  far- off  azure, 
Eyes  pleading  dumbly,  cries  that  are  a  prayer; 

Beyond  it  is  the  fair  celestial  city, 

And  voices  that  we  miss  are  singing  there. 

But  cry  and  gaze  part  not  those  pearly  portals, 
And  the  far  jasper  walls  no  strains  float  o'er. 

O  God !    this  longing  in  the  dreary  silence 
For  the  dear  voices  stilled  forevermore. 


PICTURES. 


I. 


Stately  and  tall  and  glimmering  white, 
Like  a  fair  phantom  trancing  the  sight, 
Rises  a  mansion  out  of  the  night. 


Fluttering  visions  of  fair  face  and  form, 
Soft  gala  strains,  lights  mellow  and  warm, 
Float  on  the  dark,  stream  out  on  the  storm, 


Out  on  the  bent  form,  on  the  wet  hair 
Of  one  who  shivers  shelterless  there, 
Round  him,  within  him,  night  and  despair. 


II. 


Midsummer  noon,  a  road  white  with  heat ; 
Under  the  sunbeams'  pitiless  beat 
One  walking  there  with  faltering  feet. 


60  PICTURES. 

High  garden  walls  the  dusty  way  bound, 
Over  them  thro7  the  still  noon's  profound, 

To  the  tired  traveller  come  the  cool  sound 
t 

Of  crystal  fountains  plashing  their  showers ; 
Delicate  wafts  from  banks  of  fair  flowers ; 
Low  insects'  hum  from  green  depths  of  bowers. 

Outside  the  walls  no  light  shadow-play, 
Spice-breathing  blossoms,  cool  fountain  spray, 
Straight,  blinding  white  goes  on  the  highway. 

III. 

Touched  with  the  calm  of  evening  skies, 
Flushed  as  if  sea-shells'  opaline  dyes 
Gleamed  through  its  depths,  a  fair  harbor  lies. 

White  sails  like  gulls  glide  over  its  floor, 
Prows  gaily  turn  to  homes  on  the  shore, 
Hearth-lights  leap  forth  from  window  and  door. 

Very  far  out  from  harbor  and  home 

Night  closes  down,  with  wild  storm  and  gloom, 

Round  a  ship  driving  on  to  its  doom. 


PICTUEES.  61 

Over  the  surge  no  signal-lights  flare ; 
No  sky-rifts  show  the  star-angels  there ; 
No  hushing  "  Peace,  be  still,"  thrills  the  air. 

IV. 

With  shine  and  blue  from  life's  morning  skies, 
Rippled  and  laughed  in  hair  and  in  eyes, 
Dreaming  child-dreams,  a  little  child  lies 

Dainty  and  warm  in  love's  soft  embrace, 
Glorified  with  the  sweet,  tender  grace 
Shed  from  a  mother's  ineffable  face. 

Outside  the  clasp  of  white  arms  of  love, 
Unguided,  weary  little  feet  rove. 
It  has  no  rest — the  innocent  dove. 

O,  orphaned  ones  on  whose  guileless  eyes 
Earth's  touch  of  sorrow  so  early  lies, 
Angels  yearn  to  you  out  of  the  skies ! 

O  lonely  ones  of  earth,  desolate, 
Standing  unsheltered,  outside  the  gate, 
Festival  halls  and  joys  for  you  wait ! 


62  PICTURES. 


O,  ye  who  faint  in  hot  ways,  beside 

Cool  fountains  where  the  "  still  waters  "  glide 

Through  the  "  green  pastures,"  you  shall  abide. 


O,  hapless  ships  that  far  out  at  sea, 

Through  the  wild  black  night  drift  helplessly, 

Safe  in  port  yet  at  last  you  shall  be. 


NOTHING  ELSE  TO-NIGHT. 


Softest  radiance,  saintliest  splendor 

Fills  the  autumn-night; 
Sky  and  stream  and  hill  and  meadow, 

Teem  with  silver  light. 

Gazing  out  I  know  that  beauty's 
Spell  has  touched  this  spot, 

But  my  heart  holds  other  visions 
And  it  sees  these  not. 


Over  miles  of  hill  and  forest 
Sees  the  moonlight  lave, 

In  a  wide,  wan  solitude, 
An  unshadowed  grave. 


Strange  upon  the  marble's  whiteness, 
In  the  moon's  cold  gleam, 

Looks  to-night  the  carving  of  that 
Dear  familiar  name. 


64  NOTHING   ELSE   TO-NIGHT. 


0  my  sister !     O  my  sister  ! 
If  I  might  to-night, 

Through  the  shimmer  of  the  moonbeams, 
Catch  the  angel-light 

Of  your  face  one  flitting  moment, 
Such  a  joy  't would  be  ! 

1  should  know  by  it  you  were  not 
Quite,  quite  lost  to  me. 


If,  from  out  the  throbbing  silence, 

Like  a  faint,  far  chime, 
I  might  hear  you  whisper,  "  Darling," 

As  in  the  old  time ! 


But  there  is  no  voice, — no  vision, 

Only  white  moonlight 
Wrapping  shroud-like  grave  and  marble, 

Nothing  else  to  night. 


A  SABBATH  DREAM. 


O  holy  beauty  of  the  holy  hours ! 

A  sense  of  color  fused  from  grass  and  flowers, 

Of  splendor  in  the  sunshine's  lavish  gold, 

Of  sound  thro7  silver  harps  of  silence  rolled, 

Is  here  like  a  far-off  dream  memory, 

Or  waft  of  recollected  fragrancy. 

But  all  the  long  day  eyes  enchanted  turn, 

And  all  the  long  day  hearts  with  longing  yearn 

To  the  blue  sky-deeps  where  nor  stain  nor  scar 

Of  earthly  cloud  and  earthly  shadow  are. 

And  through  the  long  days'  hush  those  sweet  words  ring 

"  Not  having  spot  or  wrinkle  or  such  thing." 


Beautiful  skies  !  tired  eyes  rest  in  your  blue, 
And  weary  human  spirits  yearn  to  you. 
So  near  and  yet  so  very  far"  away, 
You  smile  back  to  us  this  long  Sabbath  day. 
O  if  so  fair  this  side  of  Heaven  we  see, 
What  must  the  glory  of  the  other  be  ? 

E 


FITZ  HUGH  LUDLOW, 

(CLASS  OF  "  .") 

TO  THE  HOME  OF  ALL  LIVING, 


Garden  of  the  quiet  dead, 

Seed-ground  of  Eternity, 
Many  a  weary  heart  and  head 

Longs  for  silence  and  for  thee. 
Here  shall  sorrow's  hand  no  more 

Sweep  the  soul's  discordant  strings  ; 
And  the  lyre  that  oft  before 

Thrilled  to  love's  young  carolings, 
Voiceless  lies  from  morn  till  even ; 
But  it  shall  be  woke  in  Heaven. 


Island  art  thou  of  the  Blest, 
In  life's  ever-heaving  sea ; 

Here  earth's  weary  ones  may  rest 
From  the  billows'  mockery. 

Rage  ye  winds  that  vex  the  sky, 
Chilling  summer  into  death ; 


TO  THE  HOME  OF  ALL  LIVING.  67 

But  where  those  sweet  sleepers  lie 

Hush  your  voices  to  a  breath : 
Kiss  the  roses  till  they  yield 
Perfume  from  the  stilly  field. 

Heaven's  entrance-way  thou  art 

From  beggar's  hut  and  chair  of  state ; 
The  th robbings  of  the  dying  heart 

Are  only  knockings  at  thy  gate. 
Other  homes  may  scorn  to  yield 

Shelter  from  the  bitter  rain, 
At  thy  doors  O  burial-field, 

Pilgrim  never  knocked  in  vain. 
On  thy  breast  we  yet  may  fall, 
Earth,  thou  mother  of  us  all ! 

Lulled  to  sleep  in  thine  embrace 

Many  a  weary  babe  shall  lie, 
And  the  chief  whose  visored  face 

Blanched  not  at  the  battle-cry. 
Here  no  more  the  bride  shall  dream 

Of  the  rose  less  fair  than  she, 
And  olive-shaded  academe 

Shall  fade  from  Plato's  memory. 
O  mysterious  place  of  rest 
Take  thy  children  to  thy  breast. 


NIAGARA. 


Niagara !    I  am  not  one  who  seeks 

To  lift  his  voice  above  thine  awful  hymn ; 

Mine  be  it  to  keep  silence  while  God  speaks, 
Nor  with  my  praise  to  make  his  glory  dim. 

Yet  unto  thee,  shape  of  the  stony  brow, 
Standing  forever  in  thine  unshared  place, 

The  human  soul  within  me  yearneth  now, 
And  I  would  lay  my  head  beside  thy  face. 

King  from  dim  ages  of  God  set  apart 

To  bear  the  weight  of  a  tremendous  crown, 

And  feel  the  robes  that  wrap  thy  lonely  heart, 
Deaden  its  pulses  as  their  folds  flow  down. 

What  wondrous  years  are  written  on  the  scroll 
Of  thy  imperial  dread  inheritance ; 

Man  shall  not  read  until  its  lines  unroll 
In  the  great  hand  that  set  thy  stony  trance. 


NIAGARA.  69 

Perchance,  thy  moveless,  adamantine  look, 
For  its  long  watch  o'er  the  abyss  was  bent, 

Ere  the  thick  gates  of  primal  darkness  shook, 
And  light  broke  in  upon  thy  battlement. 

And  when  that  sudden  glory  lit  thy  crown, 
And  God  lent  thee  a  rainbow  from  His  throne, 

E'en  through  thy  stony  breast  flashed  there  not 

down 
Somewhat  of  His  joy  also  made  thy  own. 

Who  knoweth  but  he  gave  thee  to  rejoice 

Till  man's  hymn  sounded  through  the  time  to  be, 

And  when  our  choral  coming  hushed  thy  voice, 
Still  left  thee  something  of  humanity. 

Still  seemest  thou  a  priest,  still  the  veil  streams 
Before  thy  reverent  eyes,  and  hides  thy  sight : — 

And  thine  is  as  the  face  of  one  who  dreams 
Of  a  great  glory  now  no  more  his  right. 

Soon  shall  I  pass  away  ;  the  mighty  psalm 
Of  thine  o'er-shadowing  waters  shall  be  heard 

In  memory  only,  but  thy  speechless  calm 

Hath  lessons  for  me  more  than  many  a  word. 


70  NIAGARA. 

Teaching  the  glory  of  the  soul  that  bears 

Great  floods,  a  veil  between  Him  and  the  sun, 

And,  standing  in  the  might  of  Patience,  dares 
To  bide  His  finishing  who  hath  begun. 


A  LA  DAME  A  VOILE  NOIEE. 


As  night  the  rosy-bosomed  hills  unfolding 

Softens  their  tracery  in  his  weird  embrace, 
So  more  ethereal  grew  the  matchless  moulding 
Of  thy  pure,  earnest,  spiritual  face, 
Most  pensive  maid, 
Beneath  the  shade 
Of  that  strange  veil  of  melancholy  lace. 


Art  thou  an  abbess  gliding  from  the  chancel 
Where  Eloisa  poured  her  soul  and  prayed, 
Unshrouded  and  revivified  to  cancel 
Some  debt  of  Christian  charity  unpaid 
In  years  agone 
When  the  midnight  tone 
Of  death's  cold  angel  made  thy  heart  afraid  ? 


Or  art  thou  but  a  type  of  death's  own  essence  ? 

Unearthly  beauty  whose  dark  borderings 
Turn  men's  hearts  chill  with  horror  at  his  presence, 


72  A   LA    DAME   A    VOILE   NOIRE. 

And  make  them  slaves  who  timely  shall  be  kings. 

But  if  a  Heavenly  gale 

Lifts  up  the  veil, 
Straightway  they're  ravished  with  death 'sinner  things. 

Perchance  thou  art  a  beautiful  temptation, 

Some  mystic  bodiment  of  deadly  sin, 
Like  her,  who  in  the  veil  of  consecration, 
Mixed  with  the  orizons  of  Capuchin, 
Him  nightly  wooing, 
To  his  undoing, 
Till  to  his  lost  soul  Satan  entered  in. 

Thou  art  too  beautiful — Fll  look  no  longer, 

For  be  thou  woman,  phantasy  or  sprite, 
A  spell  is  coming  on  me  that  is  stronger 
Than  silence  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 
For  good  or  evil, 
From  saint  or  devil, 
I  dare  not  lift  my  eyes  to  read  aright. 


ODE  TO  NIGHT. 


O  lovely  mother  night ! 
Thy  breath  is  cool, 

And  on  my  fevered  brow 

I  feel  it  now 
Like  angel's  hand  dipped  in  Bethesdan  pool. 


O  lovely  mother  night ! 
Like  tired  sheep 

Within  thy  star-watched  fold, 

The  young  and  old, 
The  strong  and  weary  shall  lie  down  to  sleep. 


The  bride  whose  loved-culled  wreath 
Withered  anon, 

More  than  the  jasmine  fair, 

Shall  slumber  where 
The  warrior  lies  dead  with  his  harness  on. 


74  ODE    TO    NIGHT. 

And  O  how  sweet  and  still 
That  rest  shall  be ; — 

Beneath  the  shadowy  pall 
That  broods  o'er  all, 
Expanding  into  immortality. 


PHILLIP  PEXDLOO3T 

:F  "  r^  - 


FLOREXCE  VAXK 


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76  FLORENCE   VANE. 

Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime ; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme ; 
Thy  heart  was  like  a  river 

Without  a  main  : 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane ! 

But  fairest,  coldest,  wonder, 

Thy  glorious  clay, 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under. 

Alas,  the  day ! 
And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain — 
To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vane. 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep, 
The  daisies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep ; 
May  their  bloom  in  beauty  vying 

Never  wane, 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane. 


ANONYMOUS. 
MANY  A  YEAK  AGO. 


Many  and  many  a  time  together, 

Many  a  year  ago, 
By  this  stream  in  summer  weather, 

Two,  wandered  slow. 
But  from  me  too  soon  she  parted, 

Fore'er  below — 
Beautiful  and  broken-hearted, 

Many  a  year  ago. 

Fairer  than  the  flowers  I  brought  her 

Many  a  year  ago, 
Lies  that  face  upon  the  water 

That  haunts  me  so. 
Fairer  now  than  I  can  fashion 

In  Heaven,  I  know, 
She,  who  loved  me  in  her  passion, 

Many  a  year  ago. 

Moon  and  wood  and  sliding  river, 
Many  a  year  ago, 


78  MANY   A   YEAR   AGO. 

With  her  sigh  still  seem  to  shiver, 
For  her  young  woe. 

Little  dreamed  I  then,  fair  maiden, 
I  loved  thee  so, 

Whom  I  left  to  sorrow  laden, 
Many  a  year  ago. 


J.  ADDISON   ALEXANDER, 

(CLASS  OF  "  1826.") 

THE  DOOMED  MAN. 


There  is  a  time  we  know  not  when,- 
A  point,  we  know  not  where, 

That  marks  the  destiny  of  men 
To  glory  or  despair. 

There  is  a  line  by  us  unseen, 

That  crosses  every  path, 
The  hidden  boundary  between 

God's  patience  and  His  wrath. 

To  pass  that  limit  is  to  die, 

To  die  as  if  by  stealth ; 
It  does  not  quench  the  beaming  eye, 

Or  pale  the  glow  of  health. 

The  conscience  may  be  still  at  ease, 
The  spirits  light  and  gay ; 


80  THE   DOOMED   MAN. 

That  which  is  pleasing  still  may  please, 
And  care  be  thrust  away. 


But  on  that  forehead  God  has  set 

Indelibly  a  mark, 
Unseen  by  man,  for  man  as  yet 

Is  blind  and  in  the  dark. 


And  yet  the  doomed  man's  path  below, 
Like  Eden's  may  have  bloomed ; 

He  did  not,  does  not,  will  not  know, 
Or  feel  that  he  is  doomed. 


He  knows,  he  feels  that  all  is  well, 
And  every  fear  is  calmed ; 

He  lives,  he  dies,  he  wakes  in  hell, 
Not  only  doomed,  but  damned. 


O,  where  is  this  mysterious  bourn, 
By  which  our  path  is  crossed  ; 

Beyond  which,  God  himself  hath  sworn, 
That  he  who  goes  is  lost  ? 


THE   DOOMED   MAN.  81 

How  far  may  we  go  on  in  sin 

How  long  will  God  forbear 
Where  does  hope  end,  and  where  begin 

The  confines  of  despair? 

An  answer  from  the  skies  is  sent : — 

"  Ye  that  from  God  depart, 
While  it  is  called  to-day  repent, 

And  harden  not  your  heart." 

F 


TO  THE   RHINE. 


Lines  composed  on  re-crossing  the  Rhine  at  Coblentry. 

I  hail  thee  as  an  ancient  friend, 

And  as  I  cross  thy  line, 
My  democratic  knee  I  bend 

To  greet  thee,  royal  Rhine. ' 


The  day  and  hour  when  last  we  met 
Come  o'er  me  like  a  dream ; 

As  then  I  saw,  I  see  thee  yet, 
Unchanging,  changing  stream. 

The  rush  of  waters  o'er  thy  bed 
Distracts  my  labouring  brain  • 

Forever  dying,  never  dead, 
Buried,  yet  born  again. 

What  is  the  secret  of  thy  life 
What  holds  thy  channel  fast? 

Amids't  the  elemental  strife 
"The  earthquake  and  the  blast. 


TO    THE    KHINE.  83 

Why  is  it  that  the  swollen  tide 

Which  ever  northward  sweeps, 
So  warily  on  either  side 

Its  well  worn  station  keeps  ? 

Why  dost  thou  not,  old  Rhine,  at  length 

Burst  thy  ignoble  chains, 
And  mustering  all  thy  mighty  strength, 

Submerge  th?  adjacent  plains? 

Thou  art  a  king  among  the  streams, 

Thou  river  deep  and  broad  : 
In  regal  pomp  thy  surface  gleams 

To  man,  but  not  to  God. 


Thy  full  deep  current  bold  and  proud, 

In  His  almighty  view, 
Is  but  the  sprinkling  of  a  cloud, 

A  drop  of  morning  dew. 


Though  thou  shoulds't  empty  every  rill, 
And  drain  the  neighboring  land, 

Thy  giant  waters  could  not  fill 
The  hollow  of  His  hand. 


84  TO    THE    RHINE. 

The  same  almighty  hand  that  drives 

Thy  current  to  the  sea. 
Can  well  control  it  when  it  strives 

And  struggles  to  be  free. 

And  if  at  times  that  hand  grows  slack, 
And  lets  thee  do  thy  worst, 

He  brings  thee  still  at  pleasure  back, 
And  rules  thee  as  at  first. 


So,  when  I  bend  my  stubborn  knee 
To  greet  thee,  royal  Rhine, 

I  render  homage  not  to  thee, 
But  to  thy  Lord,  and  mine. 


ANONYMOUS. 

SEA  BIRDS,  WILD  SEA  BIRDS ! 


Sea  Birds,  wild  sea  birds  ! 
Wreckers  of  the  white-capped  wave, 
Wheeling  on  the  winds  that  rave 
Off  by  stormy  cliff  and  cave, 
Sea  Birds,  wild  sea  birds. 
Swooping,  dipping, 
Round  the  shipping 
Cradled  on  the  billow's  grave. 
Out  upon  yon  treeless  ocean, 
In  its  calm  and  its  commotion, 
Mocking  back  its  restless  motion, 
Sea  Birds,  wild  sea  birds. 


Sea  Birds,  wild  sea  birds ! 
Where  the  petrel-lightning  leaps, 
Where  the  wolf-wave  never  sleeps, 
Where  the  eagle-tempest  sweeps, 

Sea  Birds,  wild  sea  birds  ! 


86  SEA   BIRDS,   WILD   SEA   BIRDS. 

Wildly  whirling 
Through  the  swirling 
Surges  of  the  yeasty  deep. 
By  yon  bifurcated  gleaming, 
See !     A  ship  is  sinking,  steaming, 
And  upon  its  mast-tops  screaming, 
Sea  Birds,  wild  sea  birds. 


Sea  Birds,  wild  sea  birds ! 
Hooting  at  the  fowler's  dart, 
Laughing  at  the  angler's  art, 
Scoffing  compass,  sail  and  chart, 
Sea  Birds,  wild  sea  birds. 
On  the  pillow 
Of  the  billow, 

Rocked  like  child  on  mother's  heart. 
< 

Nor  within  the  forest  nested, 
Far  from  them  upon  the  crested 
Wave,  sleeps  bird  so  softly  breasted, 
Sea  Birds,  wild  sea  birds. 


Sea  Birds,  wild  sea  birds  ! 
So  like  you  with  winged  haste, 
Wheels  my  soul  upon  her  waste, 


SEA    BIRDS,    WILD   SEA    BIRDS.  87 

Swept  by  sorrow  and  effaced : 
Sea  Birds,  wild  Sea  Birds  ! 
And  like  shadows 
Eldorado's 

Are  the  phantoms  it  has  chased. 
Still  that  wild,  bright  sea  I  covet, 
With  the  clear  blue  sky  above  it, 
Land  of  sea  birds,  O  I  love  it, 
Sea  Birds,  wild  sea  birds. 


MAEY  STACY  WITHINGTON. 

THE  LAST  BANQUET  OF  ANTONY  AND 
CLEOPATRA. 


Once  more,  O  lady,  let  our  mirth's  wild  clangor 
Ring  to  the  keystone  of  the  midnight  sky, 

Then  sinking,  rouse  a  thrill  of  jealous  anger 
In  dusty  hearts  that  deep  in  old  tombs  lie. 

To-morrow,  sweet,  may  lay  us  down  beside  them, 
To-night  is  ours — crown  it  with  wine  and  song, — 

Teach  its  dark  moments  in  thy  locks  to  hide  them, 
Bind,  witch,  these  hours  to  linger  with  thee  long. 


What  wild  and  wondrous  note  was  that  went  pealing 

Up  to  the  keystone  of  the  midnight  sky  ? 
Echo  ?  What  dim  and  ivied  shapes  go  reeling 

On  through  the  gate  where  Caesar  cometh  nigh  ? 
Antonius  !  thy  country's  gods  forsake  thee — 

Not  e'en  the  god  of  Mirth  will  longer  dwell 
Where  strength  and  virtue  are  not.     Sleep  !  nor 
wake  thee 

From  Cleopatra's  arms, — Dishonor's  hell. 


THE  BLOOMING  OF  THE  CEREUS. 


There  came  a  low  tap  at  my  chamber  door, 

When  o'er  Night's  back  the  mighty  moon-shield  hung ; 

Before  Fear's  chilly  hand  stole  wholly  o'er 
My  heart,  the  door  I  swung. 

Lo  !  there  stood  maiden  Iris,  morning-eyed ; 

How  'frighted  Fear  then  spread  his  dull  bat-wing 
Kainbow  at  night !     What  word  of  Jove,  I  cried, 

Dost  from  Olympus  bring? 

Arise  !  Arise  !  and  haste  thee,  Caroline  ! 

A  breath  just  floated  thro'  my  slumbers  dumb, 
That  said :    I  hold  my  court,  a  kingdomed  queen, 

To-night,  my  hour  is  come. 

The  Cereus  blooms.     "Quick  !  by  our  Lady's  grace," 
Cried  Iris,  bringing  net  and  tying  sash ; 

Then  each  an  arm  in  arm  we  interlace, 
And  through  the  darkness  dash. 


90        THE  BLOOMING  OF  THE  CEREUS. 

Far  shone  her  father's  house.     Around  'twas  sweet 
As  if  a  sky-borne  censer  swung  down  there ; 

Roused  neighbors  thronged  like  courtiers  fain  to  greet 
A  kingdom's  Jonged-for  heir. 

Three  hours  we  watched  her  growing  ever  fair, 
And  radiating  joy  with  every  breath — 

And  then  we  watched  her  fading,  fading — Dear ! 
It  seemed  a  great  queen's  death. 

O  Land !  that  blossomed  late  in  earth's  long  night. 

Thy  first  bloom  drew  the  wondring  nations'  gaze ; 
Shall  they,  too,  see  thee,  ere  the  coming  light 

Fade  as  a  flower  decays  ? 


A  FANTASY. 


[From 

If  I  awoke  some  morn, 
And  down  the  stairs  descending,  all  forlorn 
Of  wonted  faces  found  the  world  below, — 
No  mother's  smile,  no  kiss,  no  baby's  crow, 
No  sister  taking  up  the  thread,  half-spun, 
Of  last  night's  talk  (some  talks  are  never  done 


Outside  the  door 

If  then  I  wended,  seeking  soft  Lenore 
Or  welcome,  stately-sweet  of  Lady  Clare 
Or  stayed  my  step  at  gracious  Anna's  stair 
Or  sought  gay  Lili  for  a  tilt  of  words 
Keen  and  inspiriting  as  tourney  swords  ; 


And  here  and  there, 

For  whisper  of  the  wise,  smile  of  the  fair, 
For  all  gay  courtesies,  lightsome  pleasantries, 


92  A    FANTASY. 

For  the  dark  splendor  of  some  gorgeous  eyes 
For  even  thee,  soul  comrade,  if  a  bare, 
Blank,  very  vacancy  should  on  me  stare. 

If  then  should  speak 

Some  right  authentic  angel :  They  you  seek 
All  like  a  dream  have  vanished  :  but  a  dream 
In  truth  they  ever  were ;  they  did  but  seem, 
Phantasmas  were  they,  figments,  fantasies, 
Projections  of  thy  own  thought,  only  these. 

Ah  me,  alas ! 

If  all  this  grammarye  should  come  to  pass 
I  think  I  should  believe  him ; — should  believe 
Nor  would  his  disenchantment  deeply  grieve, 
Nor  greatly  startle,  nor  bewilder  me 
Soul-comrade,  save,  'twere  also  told — of  thee. 


THE  PHYSICAL  BASIS. 


ACCORDING   TO   SHELLEY. 


When  the  lamp  is  shattered, 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead ; 

When  the  cloud  is  scattered, 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  fled ; 

When  the  lute  is  broken, 
Sweet  sounds  are  remembered  not ; 

When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

A  PROTEST. 

When  the  lamp  is  shattered, 
The  light  re-ascends  its  throne ; 

When  the  cloud  is  scattered, 
The  parted  rays  make  one ; 

When  the  lute  is  broken, 
The  heart-strings  echo  yet ; 

When — some  lips  have  spoken, 
Ah  !  would  that  we  could  forget ! 


[Impromptu."] 

Spanish  Alcove,  Library,  Princeton,  January  5th,  1879. 

WITHOUT  AND  WITHIN. 


Cold  as  the  breath  of  Azrael, 

Without  the  storm-wind  rose  and  fell, 

And  roared  and  raved,  and  drove  and  hurled 

Dead  branch  upon  dead  branch,  and  whirled 

To  shreds  the  dead  year's  shroud,  laid  o'er 

Her  softly,  all  the  night  before, 

By  pious  care  of  snow  elves  mild. 

O  shrieking  wind !  so  fierce  and  wild, 

Canst  thou  be  he  God  made  last  Spring, 

His  angel,  odor-balms  to  bring 

O'er  earth  and  sea  ?     Wilt  burst  the  door  ? 

God  keep  the  old  !     God  help  the  poor  ! 

Within  a  round  white  altar  burned 
With  vestal  heat,  that  soared  and  spurned 
The  cold  from  farthest  alcove  deep, 
Where  Art  and  Wisdom  lay  asleep ; 


WITHOUT   AND   WITHIN.  95 

It  carried  Summer  up  on  high, 
Where  violet,  rose,  and  primrose  lie, 
In  glowing  panes  that  warm  the  light, 
And  fling  it  bright  on  marble  white — 
Dark  floor,  and  desk,  and  earnest  brow, 
Grown  pale  for  love  of  Thought,  I  trow. 

Around  that  altar  seemed  to  sigh 

A  far,  faint  breath  of  Araby, 

Mild  odors  from  Malayan  strands ; 

While  from  a  row  of  pictured  lands, 

I  take,  down  moonlit  balconies, 

Clear,  graceful  founts,  that  never  freeze, 

But,  dimpling  in  glad  sun-heat  play, 

From  Christmas-Tide  to  Easter-Day. 

Circled  by  Moorish  columns'  grace, 

I  hear  no  more  the  snow- wind's  race, 

I  see  no  white  and  whirling  drift, 

Only  those  calm  cathedrals  lift 

Their  glory  in  blue  Summer  air, 

Here — costume  quaint ;  there — fancy  rare. 

So  Art  and  I  together  there 

Clasped  loving  hands  while  outside  rolled 

The  din  of  fiends,  Chaos  and  Cold ! 

Ah !  but  they  fly,  they  faint,  expire 

Before  these  angels,  Art  and  Fire ! 


THE  CONVENT  SISTERS. 


An  incident  related  in  Montalembert's  "  Monks  of  the  West.' 

Night  upon  the  convent  shone, 
Kissed  the  towers  of  august  stone, 
Down  the  cloisters  deep  and  wide, 
Night  and  peace  went  side  by  side ; 
Tower  and  crypt,  and  arch  and  wall, 
Night  and  silence  wrapt  them  all. 


Bears  the  chilly  midnight  air 
Breath  of  incense — note  of  prayer  ? 
Lauds  and  incense  far  uprolled, 
Safe  the  golden  vials  hold  ; 
Back  soft  wings  of  sleep  have  flown, 
Hark  !  Whence  is  that  hollow  moan  ? 
From  the  lone  and  patient  cell, 
Of  poor  sister  Isabel. 


Her,  the  holy  mother  chideth, 
That  her  grief  too  long  abideth  : 


THE   CONVENT   SISTERS.  97 

Her,  the  father  penance  gave, 
That  her  heart  too  fondly  clave 
Bound  a  fellow  mortal's  grave. 

Ah  !  poor  sister  Isabel, 
If  'tis  sin  to  love  too  well, 
In  a  world  of  wrath  and  scorn, 
Better  thou  had'st  ne'er  been  born ! 
Work  and  prayer  your  grief  will  calm  ; 
Meek  she  tries  each  holy  charm, 
Washes  all  the  long  stone  floor, 
Where  she  walked  with  Isadore  : 


Plucks  away  rank  autumn  weeds, 
Where  they  sowed  glad  summer  seeds  ; 
Binds  alone  for  Mary's  shrine, 
The  wreath  she  always  helped  her  twine ; 
Bends  above  some  wayward  child 
Asking  questions,  quaint  and  wild  ; 
Hard  for  fitting  answer  tries, 
And  thinks  how  Isadore  was  wise. 

O !  the  blank  in  Lauds  and  Prime, 
Where  that  voice  was  wont  to  chime ; 
G 


98  THE   CONVENT   SISTERS. 

O !  the  dread  hush  in  Compline, 
Where  it  should  come  sweetly  in  ! 
But  in  dreams  she  hears  it — hark  ! 
'  Her  soul  leaps — waking  in  the  dark. 

Quick  she  springs  up — kneels  repeating 

O'er  the  song  just  heard — the  fleeting 

Spirit  so  to  chain — in  vain  ! 

She's  gone !  She  ne'er  will  come  again  ! 

O  my  love !  What  bars  may  fret  thee  ? 

What  strange  pains  make  thee  forget  me  ? 

Hear,  O  Lord  !  I  ask  no  more, 

But  light  and  peace  give  Isadore ! 

On  the  stone  she  falleth  prone, 

On  the  still  air  spreads  her  moan. 

Clear  and  low,  and  sweet  and  full, 
Breaking  through  her  anguish  dull, 
What  is  that  ?  Whose  are  those  eyes, 
Shining  calm,  yet  eager,  wise  ? 
"  Understand  me,  my  beloved," 
Spake  the  vision,  "  be  not  moved." 

"Already  I  in  great  peace  dwell, 
But  I  know  not,  Isabel, 


THE   CONVENT   SISTERS.  99 

How  to  enter  paradise 

Without  thee ;  so  love  arise  : 

At  thy  quickest  haste  fulfill 

All  thy  task  remaining  still  ; 

Then  come !  For  I  wait  to  adore  Him, 

Till  we  two  can  kneel  before  Him." 


When  the  third  chill  midnight  shone, 
The  task  of  Isabel  was  done. 


E.  P.  T. 

IGIORNI  CHE  PASSAN. 


[From  the  Italian.     By  a  Lady.~\ 

Errante  solitario 
Fra  rupe  e  fra  forest! , 
Le  pene  mie  funesti 
Qui  vergo  a  racou  tar. 

Non  tremola  una  foglia  : 
II  vento  non  respira 
Solo  il  mio  cor  sospira 
I  giorni  che  passan. 

E  della  valle  tacita 
In  ogni  rupe  e  speco, 
Mesto  risponde  un  eco 
Ai  lagni  delP  amor. 

Oh,  fosse  quello  il  vivido 
Accento  del  mio  bene  ! 
Finest i  questi  pene, 
Sarebbero  nel  cor ! 


JAMES  WADDELL  ALEXANDEK, 

(CLASS  OF  "  1820.") 

O  SACRED  HEAD. 


O  Haupt  voll  Blut  and  Wunden. 


[From  the  German  of  Gerhardt.~\ 

O  Sacred  Head,  once  wounded  ! 

With  grief  and  shame  weighed  down, 
Now  scornfully  surrounded 

With  thorns,  thy  only  crown. 
O  Sacred  Head,  what  glory, 

What  bliss,  till  then  was  mine ! 
Yet,  though  despised  and  gory, 

I  joy  to  call  thee  mine. 


O  noblest  brow  and  dearest ! 

In  other  days  the  world 
All  feared  when  thou  appearedst ; 

What  shame  on  thee  is  hurled  ! 


102  O   SACRED   HEAD. 

How  art  thou  pale  with  anguish, 
•  With  sore  abuse  and  scorn  ! 

How  doth  that  visage  languish, 
Which  once  was  bright  as  morn. 

The  blushes  late  residing 

Upon  that  holy  cheek ; 
The  roses  once  abiding 

Upon  those  lips  so  meek  ; — 
Alas  !  they  have  departed  ; 

Wan  death  has  rifled  all : 
Forr  weak  and  broken-hearted, 

I  see  thy  body  fall. 

What  thou  my  Lord  hast  suffered, 

Was  all  for  sinners'  gain  : 
Mine,  mine  was  the  transgression, 

But  thine  the  deadly  pain. 
Lo !  here  I  fall,  my  Saviour  ! 

'Tis  I  deserve  thy  face ; 
Look  on  me  with  thy  favor, 

Vouchsafe  to  me  thy  grace. 

Beside  thee,  Lord,  I've  taken 
My  place ;  forbid  me  not ; 


O   SACRED   HEAD.  103 

Hence  will  I  ne'er  be  shaken, 

Though  thou  to  death  be  brought. 

If  pain's  last  paleness  hold  thee 
In  agony  opprest ; 

Then,  then  I  will  enfold  thce 
Within  this  arm  and  breast. 


The  joy  can  ne'er  be  spoken 

Above  all  joys  beside, 
When  in  thy  body  broken, 

I  thus  with  safety  hide. 
My  Lord  of  life,  desiring 

Thy  glory  now  to  see, 
Beside  the  cross  expiring, 

I'd  breathe  my  soul  to  thee. 


What  language  shall  I  borrow 

To  thank  thee,  dearest  Friend 
For  this,  thy  dying  sorrow, 

Thy  pity  without  end ! 
Oh,  make  me  thine  forever, 

And  should  I  fainting  be, 
Lord,  let  me  never,  never 

Outlive  my  love  to  thee. 


104  O   SACKED   HEAD. 

If  I,  a  wretch,  should  leave  thee, 

O  Jesus,  leave  not  me ! 
In  faith  may  I  receive  thee, 

When  death  shall  set  me  free. 
When  strength  and  comfort  languish, 

And  I  must  hence  depart, 
Release  me  then  from  anguish, 

By  thine  own  wounded  heart. 


ANONYMOUS. 

THE  PORCH  AND  THE  TEMPLE. 


I  stand  in  the  porch  of  a  temple 

That  rises  up  out  of  the  night : 
Its  buttress  is  buried  in  shadows, 

Its  bell-tower  is  splendored  in  light. 
Though  I  pass  not  on  earth  thro'  its  portal 

Where  the  throngs  of  the  ages  have  trod, 
I  know  by  the  signs  of  its  splendor 

That  its  builder  and  maker  is  God. 


The  sun  like  a  dim  burning  porch-lamp 

Is  shining  in  front  of  thy  door, 
The  stars  are  the  lights  in  thy  windows 

That  wave  their  red  torches  before. 
And  deep  down  in  crystalline  caverns 

That  the  torch  of  the  traveller  hath  found, 
The  rainbow  in  rock  lies  resplendent 

In  the  star-studded  night  of  the  ground. 


106        THE  PORCH  AND  THE  TEMPLE. 

The  flowers  swung  in  rare  perfumed  censors 

Are  breathing  thy  fragrance  to  me, 
The  birds  are.  all  singing  a  music 

That  shall  clasp  its  full  zone-chord  in  thee. 
And  everything  stands  for  a  prophet 

On  the  hills  that  are  lifted  between, 
A  mark  of  invisible  beauty 

An  image  of  something  unseen. 

My  soul  like  a  shell  that  is  sounding 

In  a  strange  foreign  land  of  the  sea, 
Sings  ever  the  wonderful  echo 

Of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  in  me. 
And  sometimes  a  faint  solemn  murmur 

Rolls  up  on  the  spirit  within ; 
The  echo  of  life  everlasting, 

The  sound  of  its  strange,  silent  din. 

When  the  red  sun  bars  in  splendor 

The  curtains  that  crimson  the  sky, 
Its  gate  like  an  angry  garnet 

Blinds  brightly  the  earthly  eye. 
When  I  shake  off  the  dust  from  my  sandals 

At  the  sepulchre's  open  door, 
O  how  with  a  spotless  footstep 

Shall  I  tread  your  crystal  floor. 


THE    PORCH   AND    THE   TEMPLE.  107 

O  white-towered  city  of  wonder ! 

O  beautiful  homes  of  the  blest ! 
My  heart  though  it  throbbeth  in  slumber 

But  knocks  at  thy  closed  doors  for  rest. 
But  my  thoughts  as  they  throng  on  thy  portal 

Fall  down  broken-winged  in  their  flight 
Ah  !   only  Death's  rusty  night-key 

Shall  open  the  Palace  of  Light. 


MAEGAEET  E.  BEECKENEIDGE. 

KNITTING  FOE  THE  SOLDIERS. 


Here  I  sit  at  the  same  old  work, 

Knitting  and  knitting  from  daylight  till  dark ; 

Thread  over  and  under,  and  back  and  through, 

Knitting  socks  for — I  don't  know  who; — 

But  in  fancy  IVe  seen  him  and  talked  with  him  too. 

He  is  no  hero  of  gentle  birth, 
He's  little  in  rank,  but  he's  much  in  worth ; 
He's  plain  of  speech,  and  strong  of  limb ; 
He's  rich  in  heart,  but  he's  poor  of  kin  ; 
There  are  none  at  home  to  work  for  him. 


He  set  his  lips  with  a  start  and  a  frown 

When  he  heard  that  the  dear  old  flag  was  shot  down 

From  the  walls  of  Fort  Sumter,  and  flinging  away 

His  tools  and  his  apron,  stopped,  but  to  say 

To  his  comrades,  "  I'm  going,  whoever  may  stay," 

And  was  listed  and  gone  by  the  close  of  the  day. 


KNITTING   FOE    THE    SOLDIERS.  109 

And  whether  he  watches  to-night  on  the  sea, 
Or  kindles  his  camp-fire  on  "  lone  Tybee," 
By  river  or  mountain,  wherever  he  be, 
I  know  he's  the  noblest  of  all  that  are  there, 
The  promptest  to  do,  and  the  bravest  to  dare ; 
The  strongest  in  trust,  and  the  last  in  despair. 

So  here  I  sit  at  the  same  old  work, 

Knitting  socks  for  the  soldiers  from  daylight  till  dark, 

And  whispering  low  as  the  thread  flies  through, 

To  him  who  shall  wear  them, — I  don't  know  who  ; — 

Ah,  soldier,  fight  bravely,  be  patient,  be  true, 

For  some  one  is  knitting  and  praying  for  you. 


HOE  ACE  BINNEY  WALLACE, 

(CLASS  OF ""  1835.") 

ODE  ON  THE  RHINE'S  RETURNING  INTO 
GERMANY  FROM  FRANCE. 


Oh  sweet  is  thy  current  by  town  and  by  tower, 
The  green  sunny  vale  and  the  dark  linden  bower ; 
Thy  waves  as  they  dimple  smile  back  on  the  plain, 
And  Rhine,  ancient  river,  thou'rt  German  again  ! 


The  roses  are  sweeter,  the  air  is  more  free, 
More  blithe  is  the  song  of  the  bird  on  the  tree ; 
The  yoke  of  the  mighty  is  broken  in  twain, 
And  Rhine,  dearest  river,  thou'rt  German  again  ! 


The  land  is  at  peace  and  breaks  forth  into  song, 
The  hills,  in  their  echoes,  the  cadence  prolong, 
The  sons  of  the  forest  take  up  the  glad  strain, 
"  Our  Rhine,  our  own  river,  is  German  again !  " 


ODE.  Ill 

Thy  daughters,  sweet  river,  thy  daughters  so  fair, 
With  their  eyes  of  dark  azure,  and  soft  sunny  hair, 
Repeat  ?mid  their  dances  at  eve  on  the  plain, 
"  Our  Rhine,  our  own  river,  is  German  again !" 


ANONYMOUS. 
THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  FALLEN. 


God  of  the  bright,  unfallen  sun 

That  stoops  to  kiss  a  wretch  like  me, 
In  the  whole  world  there  now  is  none 

To  whom  my  soul  may  come  but  thee  ! 
Though  ruined  and  unclaimed  my  birth, 

Though  fallen  all  my  prided  charms  ; 
If  ruined,  'tis  but  for  the  earth ; 

If  fallen,  'tis  within  thy  arms. 

God  of  the  fallen,  hear  my  prayer ! 

By  all  the  wounds  in  Christ  that  bleed, 
O  do  not  leave  me  in  despair, 
*  O  do  not  pass  the  lips  that  plead. 
And  thus,  though  shunned  of  all  I  be, 

And  thus,  though  fallen  low,  I  lie : 
"When  we  are  farthest  off  from  thee, — 

Thou  never  art  to  us  so  nigh. 

As  the  struck  eagle  on  the  plain 

Transfixed  upon  the  death-cold  dart, 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  FALLEN.        113 

Looks  up  at  the  blue  sky  again 

That  but  so  lately  warmed  his  heart ; 

So  the  spent  spirit  here  below 

Yearns  from  its  dust  to  one  divine ; 

And  O  how  sweet  it  is  to  know 
That  one  so  lost  as  I — am  Thine  ! 


God !  that  the  passion  of  my  love 

Should  work  in  me  such  lethal  spell, 
As  that  the  noblest  gift  above 

Sets  Heaven  to  sink  me  down  to  hell. 
O  that  the  genius  of  my  youth 

Should  starve  for  lack  of  self-control, 
And  in  the  banquet-hall  of  truth 

Know  but  the  hunger  of  a  soul ! 


I  wonder  on  this  wintry  night, 

When  gathered  for  the  evening  prayer, 
Whether,  though  I  be  far  from  sight, 

They  think  of  her  who  once  was  there? 
Strange  that  I  should  be  counted  thus 

Because  I  fell  in  bolder  sin, 
Since  all  who  walk  the  world  with  us 

Carry  a  fallen  soul  within. 
H 


114  THE   PRAYEK   OF  THE   FALLEN. 

I  sought  the  love  of  Nature's  heart, 

I  came,  and  called  her  by  her  name, 
But  she  too  seemed  to  stand  apart 

And  put  my  sinful  soul  to  shame. 
I  saw  the  mountains  rise  on  high  ; 

Beneath  their  burnished  crowns  of  snow ; 
They  rose  up  glorious, — but  I 

Lay  fallen  at  their  feet  below. 

I  saw  the  brook  within  its  bed, 

And  on  its  tide  the  willow  tree; 
But,  when  it  saw  my  face,  it  fled 

To  hide  its  picture  in  the  sea. 
I  spoke  to  birds  that  sang  near  by ; 

I  wooed  them  with  my  softest  tone ; 
They  spread  their  wings  upon  the  sky, — 

And  I  felt  fallen  and  alone. 

The  vine,  though  trampled  by  the  storm, 

And  dashed  upon  the  careless  ground, 
May  lift  again  its  fallen  form, 

And  reach,  ere  night,  the  top-most  round. 
The  very  dust  beneath  my  feet 

May  set  itself  on  windy  wing, 
To  stars  along  the  golden  street, 

That  light  the  seraphs  as  they  sing. 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  FALLEN.        115 

But  I  shall  never  rise  again, 

Though  many  a  wing  o'er  me  be  spread, 
For,  far  from  women  and  from  men, 

I  dwell  with  the  unburied  dead. 
For  them  the  Sabbath  bells  shall  ring, 

And  prayer  be  given,  O  God,  to  Thee, 
For  them  the  white-robed  choir  shall  sing, 

But  not  for  me,  but  not  for  me. 

O  that  my  Saviour,  as  he  stood 

Among  that  group  of  old,  would  stand 
By  me,  and  bid,  with  instant  word 

Stone-throwing  slander  drop  it  hand! 
O  could  I  hark  that  lovely  voice, 

That  gently  spoke  to  one  before : 
Thy  sins  are  all  forgiven.     Rejoice, 

O  woman — go,  and  sin  no  more  ! 

My  mother  drove  me  from  her  door ; 

My  name  was  silenced  for  my  sin ; 
My  father  bid  me  come  no  more; — 

Father  in  Heaven,  O  let  me  in ! 
I've  wandered  in  the  bitter  street ; 

I've  slept  where  dangers  nightly  roam ; 
The  frost  hath  marked  my  bleeding  feet ; — 

Father  in  Heaven,  O  take  me  home ! 


FROM  THE  BARK  OF  AN  OLD  TREE. 


[From  a  Lady's  Album.    By  a  LadyJ} 

E'en  as  a  traveler  perchance, 

Engraves  his  name  upon  a  tree, 
In  hope  to  win  a  casual  glance, 

And  woo  remembrance  still,  when  he 
A  distant  wanderer  may  be ; — 

Thus  have  I  claimed  this  page  of  thine, 
Be  it  but  reckoned  worthy  thee, 

And  I  shall  proudly  own  it  mine. 


GUI  DE  PASSION. 


[ From  the  French.    By  a  Lady.~\ 

N'aimez-vous  pas  Forage, 

Avec  ses  bruits  lointains  : 
Avec  Peclair  qui  nage, 

Qui  flamboie  et  s'eteint ! 
N'aimez-vous  pas  la  foudre, 

Et  ses  roulements  sourds, 
Qui  rappelle  le  poudre, 

Battant  les  vieilles  tours. 


N'aimez-vous  pas  au  coeur, 

Cette  voix  qui  bouleverse, 
Cette  voix  du  malheur, 

Qui  foudroie  et — 
Eh  bieu  !  ces  ouragans, 

Ces  tempetes  de  Fame, 
Tout  pour  les  coeurs  ardents, 

Ce  que  c'est  pour  Foeil  la  flamrae. 


JOHN  MILLEK, 

(CLASS  OF  "1836.") 

"  SHE  IS  NOT  DEAD." 


"  She  is  not  dead."     Why  jesting  speak, 
Great  Healer,  to  this  scorning  herd? 

Cold  as  the  ashes  of  her  cheek, 

And  dead  as  marble,  sounds  that  word. 

Is  not  the  limner-king  at  work, 
Lighting  his  shadows  on  her  brow, 

And  thine  own  seal  the  lines  that  lurk 
About  that  sleeping  damsel  now  ? 

Like  leopard  in  his  fevered  beat. 
Within  an  iron  compass  round, 

Tired  fancy,  with  returning  feet, 
Toils  at  this  empty,  mocking  sound. 

What  means  it  ?     Not  that  death  to  thee 
Is  but  her  entrance  back  to  life ; 

For  all  the  scattered  graves  shall  be 
Like  trophies  in  a  final  strife : 


"SHE   IS   NOT   DEAD."  119 

Nor  that  she  lives.     Death  hath  no  cell 

In  darkest  dungeon  of  the  sea 
Where  sleeper  since  our  mother  fell 

Sleeps  more  the  sleep  of  death  than  she. 

The  search  seems  endless.     The  hot  brute 
That  chafes  within  the  cage's  walls, 

Makes  each  dull  foot-mark,  worn  and  mute, 
Note  a  glance  outward  as  it  falls  : 

So  eager  fancy  eyes  the  bed ; 

The  waiting  group  ;  the  bated  breath  ; 
That  silent,  wondering,  pitying  dread, 

That  bends  within  thy  court,  O  Death  : 

And  more !  Oh  miracle  and  shame  ! 

The  dying  daughter's  restless  hands, 
And  clouding  sight,  that  groping  came, 

As  questioning  where  her  father  stands  ; 

Till,  faltering,  and  their  purpose  lost 

By  thicker  shadows  o'er  her  eye, 
Her  love's  poor,  baffled  look  has  cost 

The  last  and  fatal  agony. 


120  "SHE  is  NOT  DEAD." 

These  answer  not !     Nor  yet  the  street, 
Nor  yet  the  shoutings  by  the  sea, 

Nor  yet  the  sound  of  coming  feet, 
Nor  yet  the  Savior's  mastery. 

Christ  has  all  life ;  but  why  should  one 
Thus  brave  the  tyrant  in  his  den ; 

Or  go  like  Esther  to  the  throne, 
And  bring  her  beauty  back  again  ? 

There  stands  the  question.     What  in  her 
Forced  death  that  deadly  game  to  miss  ? 

And  where  the  pulses  that  could  stir 
Life  in  a  livid  form  like  this  ? 


Sudden,  like  daybreak  o'er  the  sea 
In  Summer  cycle  near  the  Line, 

Light  flashes,  and  the  mystery 

Ends  at  a  glance  in  thought  divine. 

Jairus  ! — Not  gentle  like  the  girl ! 

Not  powerful  like  the  Incarnate  King ! 
Go  hail  him  !  (proud,  disdainful  churl !) 

Superb  enchanter,  life  to  bring ! 


"SHE   IS   NOT   DEAD."  121 

The  man  who  nursed  his  bigot  zeal, 
The  man  who  prized  his  haughty  line, 

Has  forced  his  envied  rank  to  kneel 
For  worship  at  a  hated  shrine. 

There  lay  Christ's  meaning !    When  the  slaves 
Came  seeking  their  dishonored  lord, 

Mark  the  strange  faith ;  'tis  that  that  saves 
The  daughter  by  our  Savior's  word. 

The  man  who  suffered  life  to  wane, 

And  death  to  torture  undenied, 
Watching  the  ravages  of  pain 

And  weakness  at  his  daughter's  side, 

Has  dashed  the  bigot  in  his  strength, 
And  crushed  the  zealot  in  his  zeal, 

And  left  the  suffering  girl  at  length, 
Meek,  at  the  Peasant's  feet  to  kneel. 

No  paltering  now :  to  the  vile  dust 
He  brings  his  forehead  and  his  cry. 

And  thronging  prayers  and  groans  are  thrust 
Into  the  ear  of  sympathy. 


122 


Forgot  all  Jewry  !  What  their  dread, 
And  what  their  shame  about  his  case, 

And  what  their  cry,  "  The  maid  is  dead," 
To  him  who  tastes  his  Master's  grace? 

Upright  before  the  face  of  men, 
Humble  before  the  eye  of  Heaven, 

Mark  this  grand  faith,  and  take  it  then 
For  answer  that  our  Lord  has  given. 

Go,  servants,  back,  nor  waste  your  breath, 
Nor  theirs  who  say,  "  Thy  child  is  dead ; " 

"  She  is  not  dead  ; "  her  father's  faith 
Stands  victor  at  the  maiden's  bed. 


"WHAT  IS  HIS  NAME?" 
i 


A  SONG  OF  DEGREES. 


" — When  they  shall  say  to  me,  What  is  his  name?  what  shall  I 
say  unto  them  ?  And  God  said  unto  Moses,  I  shall  be  what  I  shall 
be :  and  he  said,  Thus  shalt  thou  say  unto  the  children  of  Israel,  I 
shall  he  hath  sent  me  unto  you." — Exodus,  III.,  13,  14. 

"  I  appeared  unto  Abraham,  unto  Isaac,  and  unto  Jacob  by  the 
name  of  God  Almighty ;  but  by  my  name  Jehovah  (He  Shall  Be) 
was  I  not  known  to  them." — Exodus,  VL,  3. 

O  GOD  ALMIGHTY,  can  there  be 
A  grander  name  than  that  for  thee  ? 
ALMIGHTY  GOD  !    What  lordlier  king 
For  fancy  on  its  wildest  wing  ? 


The  universe  an  infant  lives 
Alone  by  power  thy  being  gives ; 
Its  myriad  ages  past,  to  thee, 
An  instant  in  eternity. 

Yet  God,  when  beams  of  mercy  broke 
On  Israel  under  Pharaoh's  stroke, 


124  "WHAT  is  HIS  NAME?" 


Thou  scornedst  this  proud  name  to  own, 
And  as  JEHOVAH  wouldst  be  known. 


Strange  title !  Riddle  dark  and  deep 
The  ages  in  those  letters  keep : 
Puzzle  nor  men  nor  angels  see ; 
Yet  simplest  legend,— "He  Shall  Be." 

Not  what  thoti  wast  when  world  on  world 
In  spendthrift  splendor  was  unfurled ; 
Nor  afterward,  when  life  and  death 
Hung  in  the  balance  on  Thy  breath ; 

But  what  "  I  shall  be,"  such  the  name 
Thou  gavest  Moses  to  proclaim  ; 
JEHOVAH  !  what  "  He  Shall  Be  "  when 
The  God  descends  to  dwell  with  men. 

Blest  legend !  long  fulfilled  ;  for  now, 
In  sunlight  on  the  Savior's  brow, 
Gleams  the  great  name  of  all  the  three, 
EMMANUEL,  what  I  was  to  be. 


STRONG  DELUSION. 


I. 


"  Down  at  the  bottom  of  the  churchly  pile, 

Built  in  by  martyrs, 

Lies  the  hoar  relic  of  a  mystic  Three, 

Supporting  all  the  faith, 

And  watched  by  tread  of  sentinels. 


Time  cannot  change  it. 

It  roots  itself  in  piety. 

Baptized  into  our  speech ; 

Bright  with  the  colors  of  the  easel's  work ; 

Attune  with  minstrelsy : 

And  all  alive  with  ransom, 

And  with  the  throes  of  earnest  prayer ; 

It  seats  itself  for  other  flight  of  years : 

Though,  like  the  '  Night '  and  l  Morning '  in  the 

Tomb, 

It  lies,  half  cut,  within  the  rock, 
And,  therefore,  as  much  unseen  as  seen. 


126  STRONG   DELUSION. 

And  yet  a  creature  of  a  month  or  day 

Sets  him  against  the  centuries; 

Rejects  the  doctrine, 

Brands  it  all  a  cheat, 

Burns  in  the  candle  of  his  own  esteem ; 

And,  given  up  to  strong  delusion  to  believe  a  lie, 

Is  fixed  as  granite, 

Though  the  world's  piety  eyes  him  with  pity, 

And  knows  the  foot  below  him  is  but  sand." 


II. 


So  sang  the  saintliest;  but  saintlier  from  the  Throne 

Shot  forth  a  messenger, 

And  blazoned  on  the  cope 

Of  Heaven's  high  canopy  responsive  pictures. 


As  when  coal,  sharpened  in  points, 

Heats  the  white  light, 

And  pours  its  offering  on  the  curtained  wall. 


There  is  a  street ; 

And  vulgar  crowds  are  hurrying  to  Calvary. 


STRONG  DELUSION.  127 

The  scum  of  Galilee  has  claimed  to  be  a  God ! 

Think  of  it ! 

The  Latin  world  moves  on  like  stars  in  space ; 

And  the  Augustan  age, 

Crowded  with  vast  events, 

Recks  not  the  history. 

Clio  has  turned  her  back ; 

And,  afterward,  when  search  is  made, 

The  lying  monks  have  to  invent  a  record. 

Great  Rome,  fixed  in  the  zenith  of  her  strength, 

Feels  Him  like  dust  upon  her  chariot. 

And  yet  this  beggar,  fainting  on  the  ground, 

Black  clots  upon  His  beard, 

And  mocking  tinsel  yet  upon  His  arm, 

Grasps  at  the  sovereignty  of  worlds ! 

He  held  a  court  but  now  in  the  Prsetorium ; 

His  purple — stolen ; 

His  sceptre — 

Afterward  to  bear  the  sponge  that  ministered  to 

His  pitiable  feebleness ; 
His  crown— the  weeds  clutched  from  the  thorny 

Kedron ; 

His  worship — mockery ; 
His  service — oaths  and  smitings. 


128  STEONG   DELUSION. 

Take  this  hot  moment ! 

When,  knowing  He  must  be  mad, 

They  use  Him  for  a  soldier's  revel ; 

Or,  better,  when  the  moon  looks  out  .upon  His  pain, 

And  weary  Salem  sleeps  away  her  madness. 

Where  is  the  strong  delusion  ? 

His  ?  mixed  up  with  murderers  ? 

Or  theirs,  who  sent  Him  to  His  death, 

Calm  in  that  wealth  of  faith, — 

"Give  God  the  praise; 

We  know  that  this  man  is  a  sinner  ?" 


A  ring  of  priestly  bell,  and  crumbs  of  bread 
Are  turned  into  the  flesh  of  this  same  peasant ! 
Some  creature  doubts  it, 
And  a  cry  of  injured  faith  swells  to  the  very 

Heaven, 

And  broad  over  every  land 
Comes  the  deep  sigh  of  faith 
Adjudging  martyrdom. 
Whose  is  the  strong  delusion  ? 

A  pitcher  lifts  the  water  from  the  spring, 
And  pours  it  on  the  head  of  infancy, 
And  a  deep  life  springs  forth ! 


STRONG   DELUSION.  129 

A  priest  extends  liis  hand, 

And  pardon  follows  on  the  spoken  breath ! 


A  worm  crawls  blindly  from  the  churchly  path, 
And  the  whole  world,  with  pity  in  her  eye,  calls 
for  his  torture. 


There  is  no  end  to  lessons. 


Another  worm  sits  on  the  throne,  a  madman ; 

Makes  life  a  curse ; 

Builds  law  on  perjured  wickedness ; 

And  saps  even  laws  like  that,  with  hot  impatien- 

cies  of  villany. 
And  yet  for  years  and  years 
The  world  cries  out  that  he  is  divine : 
And  bishops  lose  their  sees ; 
And  statesmen  put  their  heads  upon  the  block, 
Rather  than  say  that  there  is  no  divinity  in  kings, 
Come  there  what  will. 


And  so  of  other  things, 

Mayhap  this  multiple  of  God — the  honored  Trinity, 


130  STRONG   DELUSION. 

Delusion  bows  itself  with  all  its  might, 

And  pulls  the  fane  of  faith 

Upon  its  buried  worshippers. 

But  whose  delusion  is  it  ? 

Is  it  the  blind  Samson  ? 

And  all  the  Lords  safe  in  their  might? 

And  Dagon  on  its  pedestal  ? 

Or  is  it  the  shorn  victim  coming  to  his  strength ; 

And  the  crushed  captive  blessing  most, 

Just  in  his  saddest  hour  ? 


OUR  DEAD, 


[From  a  Lady's  Sketch-Book.'] 

Grief  cannot  win  them  back, 

And  yet  with  frequent  tears 
We  bring  to  mind  their  cherished  forms, 

With  thoughts  of  other  years  ; — 
With  love,  that  neither  death  nor  change 
Hath  power  to  sever  or  estrange. 

We  cannot  blot  them  out 

From  memory's  written  page ; 

We  cannot  count  them  strangers,  but 
Like  birds  in  prison  cage, 

We  beat  against  the  iron  bar, 

That  keeps  us  from  those  friends  afar. 


Oblivion  may  not  hang 

Its  curtain  o'er  their  graves ; 

There  is  no  water  we  can  sip 
Like  Lethe's  lulling  wave ; 


132  OUR  DEAD. 

But  fond  affection's  moaning  wail 
Breaks  from  us  like  the  Autumn  gale. 

Ye  are  not  dead  to  us, 

But  as  bright  stars  unseen 

We  hold  that  ye  are  ever  near, 
Though  death  invades  between. 

Like  a  thin  cloud  that  veils  from  sight 

The  countless  spangles  of  the  night. 


ANONYMOUS. 

AS  CHILDREN  FOLD  THEIR  SLEEPY 
FACES. 


As  children  fold  their  sleepy  faces 

Within  the  breast  that  gave  them  birth, 

So  do  the  dead  in  quiet  places 

Turn  them  to  thee,  O  Mother  Earth  I 

What  though  the  snow  shall  whiten  on  us, 
A  warmer  robe  we  never  knew  ; 

What  though  the  rain  fall  oft  upon  us, 
So  fell  our  mother's  tear-drops  too. 

I  go — but  not  to  greet  a  stranger ; 

To  thee  our  friends  for  quiet  went ; 
And  in  thy  lap  through  calm  and  danger 

Our  little  life  hath  all  been  spent. 

And  as  we  travelling  ever  nearer 

Touch  in  the  grave  God's  garment-hem, 

Thou  art  to  us,  O  Earth,  the  dearer 
For  all  that  thou  hast  done  for  them. 


134   AS  CHILDREN  FOLD  THEIR  SLEEPY  FACES. 

On  thy  firm  lips  forever  closes 
The  awful  secret  kept  in  thee ; 

And  thy  calm  face  no  line  discloses 
Of  earthly  guilt  or  misery. 

For,  be  thy  grave  by  land  or  billow, 
To  traveller  in  its  midnight-inn, 

'Tis  but  the  turning  of  a  pillow 
To  cool  the  fever-flush  of  sin. 

I  know  not  to  what  worlds  beyond  thee, 
Those  sleeping  travellers  are  bound  ; 

I  only  know  the  flowers  that  frond  thee 
Are  breathing  pity  all  around. 


Banquet  of  Rest !  affection's  roses 

Shall  drink  to  thee,  O  Mother  Earth ! 

In  golden  wine  where  love  reposes, 
The  pledge  of  an  immortal  birth. 


Against  a  grave  within  a  garden, 

Rosebuds  by  night  beat  out  their  breath, 

Till  to  God's  knock  they  seemed  to  harden,- 
'Twas  Beauty  calling  unto  Death. 


AS  CHILDREN  FOLD  THEIR  SLEEPY  FACES.   135 

Sleep  knew  that  sound,  and  there  immortal 
Christ  rose  out  of  the  rock-tombed  clod ; 

And  in  its  bright  and  vine-clad  portal, 
At  midnight  stood  the  Son  of  God. 


ELIZABETH  HENRY  MILLER. 


0  distant  Past !  whose  shadows  deepening  round  me, 
Hide  from  my  view  what  once  seemed  bright  and 

clear, 

Thou  canst  not  blur  her  image  whose  love  crowned  me, 
Whose  spirit  to  my  soul  draws  strangely  near. 

1  know  her  quiet  form  is  safely  sleeping 
Beneath  the  watchful  glance  of  Heaven's  eye ; 

I  know  the  sound  of  my  wild,  bitter  weeping, 
Cannot  disturb  her  cold  serenity. 

And  well  I  know  her  memory  shall  linger, 

Unheeding  Time's  imperious  decree, 
Till  solemn  Death  shall  lay  his  icy  finger 

Upon  my  fettered  soul  and  set  it  free. 


JAMES  C.  MOFFAT. 

(CLASS  OF  "  1835.") 

EXTRACTS  FROM  "ALWYN." 

[From  Canto  /.] 


What  recks  to  tell  of  birth  and  long  descent  ? 

Is  not  the  spirit  from  Jehovah  sprung  ? 
Enough  that  Alwyn  from  his  childhood  bent 

Him  to  the  toils  of  knowledge,  and  among 

The  free,  wild  mountains  was  his  fortune  flung 
Almost  as  free  ;  and  lone  and  far  away 

From  all  the  bias  of  the  babbling  tongue, 
His  work  conversed  with  Nature,  and  his  play 
Was  o'er  the  learned  page  to  linger  night  and  day. 


Where  streamlets,  rushing  down  the  mountain  side, 
Leap  in  their  giddy  haste  from  lin  to  lin  ; 

And  overhanging  groves,  in  solemn  pride 
And  mystic  twilight,  shut  their  chorus  in 
As  with  a  temple,  where  the  murmuring  din, 


1  38  EXTRACTS  FROM  "  ALW YN." 

With  song  of  birds,  half  plaintive  and  half  glad, 

The  worship  speak  of  those  who  cannot  sin, 
He  oft  would  linger  till  their  influence  had 
A  kindred  feeling  wrought,  as  happy  and  as  sad. 


When  summer  morning  crowned  the  hills  with  gold, 
And  stretched  their   lengthened  shadows  o'er  the 
plain, 

When  early  shepherd,  hastening  to  the  fold, 
Or  mountain  ranges  of  his  wilcl  domain, 
Gave  to  the  breeze  his  spirit-prompted  strain, 

'Twas  to  the  enthusiast  boy  a  draft  of  new 
And  sweeter  life  the  highest  peak  to  gain, 

Whence  all  the  varied  landscape,  bursting  through 

The  lower  twilight,  lay  like  pictures  to  his  view  : 

The  effulgent  orb  ascending  from  the  deep 

Of  nether  space,  bathed  in  a  flood  of  light ; 
The  dewy  uplands,  which  all  night  did  weep 

His  absence,  now  rejoicing  in  the  might 

Of  his  returning,  tenderly  as  bright, 
Like  gladdened  Beauty  smiling  in  her  tears  ; 

The  obscure  beyond — skirts  of  retreating  night, 
Which  still  upon  the  western  verge  appears, 
Like  half-defeated  foe,  yet  struggling  with  his  fears : 


139 


The  snow-white  mists  along  a  hundred  vales, 

Slumbering  in  silence  by  their  hidden  streams, 
And  as  the  invading  day  their  rest  assails, 

Slowly  ascending  on  the  advancing  beams ; 

While  here  and  there  some  village  coppice  seems 
An  island  in  the  flood  of  fleecy  cloud 

Melting  away  before  the  warmth  which  teems 
From  yon  triumphant  orb,  as  if  the  proud 
Earth  had  awoke  from  death  and  bondage  of  the 
shroud : 

The  voice  of  many  waters,  shining  rills, 
Like  living  things  in  wilful  song  and  play, 

Which,  by  a  thousand  tiny  falls,  the  hills 

Pour  down  into  the  glens ;  the  ceaseless  fray, 
Where  adverse  streams  do  battle  for  the  way, 

Their  graver  rush  united,  and  the  roar 
Of  the  fierce  cataract,  whose  hoary  spray 

Is  Nature's  incense-cloud,  and  evermore 

The  distant  river's  dash  upon  its  rocky  shore ; 

And  rising  with  the  day  the  sweeter  notes, 
Which  draw  their  daily  being  from  the  sun, 

The  lark's  clear  matin  hymn,  which  downward  floats, 
As  if  in  joy  from  heaven  already  won ; 


140  EXTRACTS  FROM 

The  long  complaints,  which  o'er  the  mountains  run, 
From  fleecy  flocks  descending  from  their  lair, 

And  far  below,  from  labors  re-begun, 
The  sounds  of  human  life,  rising  like  prayer, 
Blend  into  sweet  accord  upon  the  throbbing  air. 


When  Nature,  panting  with  excess  of  life, 

Beneath  the  ripe  luxuriance  of  noon, 
Lavished  her  wealth  on  the  broad  landscape,  rife 

With  all  the  offspring  of  redundant  June, ' 

Where  sighing  groves  with  murmuring  brooks  com- 
mune, 
Where  meadows  wave,  or  fields  of  ripening  grain, 

Vocal  with  insect  being's  drowsy  tune, 
Where  listless  herds  bestrew  the  grassy  plain, 
Would  Alwyn  quaff  the  scene,  till  very  bliss  was  pain. 

But  when,  for  many  a  long  and  burning  day, 
The  latest  cloud  had  disappeared  on  high, 

And  the  white,  molten  sun  pursued  his  way 
Across  the  surface  of  a  brazen  sky, 
Bleaching  the  earth  with  unrelenting  eye, 

When  withering  pastures  crumpled  to  the  tread, 
And  brooks  exhaled  had  left  their  channels  dry, 


EXTEACTS  FROM  "ALWYN."  141 

With  panting  herds  he  to  the  shelter  fled, 
And  looked  for  Nature's  death,  as  if  her  source  were 
dead. 


Nor  with  less  awe  beheld  the  Titan  war 
Of  the  returning  clouds,  so  long  exiled, 

Their  angry  hosts  assembling  from  afar 
In  masses  on  the  low  horizon  piled, 
Where  glorious  light,  with  darkness  reconciled, 

Rested  upon  their  crests,  their  armor  lined. 
But  lo  !  they  come,  swift  skirmishers  and  wild 

Sweep  o'er  the  sky,  soon  with  the  ranks  combined, 

And  distant  thunder  rolls  up  solemnly  behind. 


And  heavy  drops  fall  far  apart  and  slow, 

Each  on  the  sand  a  momentary  stain. 
The  winds  leap  forth — an  ambuscade — and  lo ! 

The  forest  writhes  and  tosses  as  with  pain, 

The  dust  is  swept  in  clouds  along  the  plain. 
Again  the  thunders  issue  their  command, 

And  freely  falls  the  cool,  refreshing  rain, 
Copious,  but  gentle,  and  with  teeming  hand 
Pours  down  new  stores  of  life  upon  the  fainting  land, 


142  EXTKACTS  FEOM  "  ALWYN." 

Ye  tranquil  summer  days,  whose  breath  is  balm, 
And  soft  as  rising  of  the  morning  dew, 

How  little  wot  we  that  the  child-like  calm 
Which  fills  the  soul  with  confidence  in  you, 
Is  but  a  truce,  the  balance  nice  and  true 

Of  such  stupendous  forces — deadly  foes, 
Just  waiting  with  the  fatal  aim  in  view, 

Ready,  when  God  permits,  in  strife  to  close, 

Which  shall  this  solid  globe  dissolve  in  mortal  throes. 


{From,  Canto  II.] 

The  Theban  eagle,  in  his  sunward  flight, 

Alwyn  pursued  with  charmed  and  eager  eye, 
Whether  through  darkening  clouds,  eluding  sight, 

Or  flashing  out  in  evening's  richest  dye, 

Or  in  eternal  truth's  serenest  sky 
He  soared  in  light,  wooing  the  pure  desire 

From  earth's  renown  to  nobler  things  on  high. 
Then  o'er  its  ashes  mourned  the  Cean  fire, 
The  wreck  of  Lesbian  song,  and  Sappho's  broken 
lyre. 


How  the  heart  gladdens  in  its  own  bright  dream 
Of  old  .ZEolian  and  Doric  song ! 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "  ALWYN."  143 

Bathed  in  the  beauty  of  that  lyric  stream, 
Whose  waves  alone  the  history  prolong, 
All  nature  smiles ;  that  then  were  woe  and  wrong, 

That  then  were  irksome  toils  and  cloudy  days 
We  overlook.     Like  future  to  the  young, 

So  'to  the  classic  taste  the  past  conveys 

Only  the  poet's  world,  the  magic  of  his  lays. 

The  joyous  Melos  seems  to  fill  the  air, 
The  buoyant  music  of  a  sunny  clime, 

And  Elegy,  her  sister,  not  less  fair, 
With  holy  Dithyramb,  in  her  sublime 
Religious  ecstacy,  blend  with  the  chime 

Of  choral  chants,  and  festive  melodies 
The  voice  of  Hellas,  in  her  golden  prime, 

And  Ceos,  Lesbos,  Thebes  and  Sparta  rise 

In  Fancy's  fairest  light  to  Fancy's  dazzled  eyes. 


[From  Canto  VII.'] 

Self-humbled  son  of  God,  atoning  lamb 

W^ho  once  for  men  descendedst  from  thy  throne, 

How  shall  I  praise  Thee,  sinful  as  I  am, 
All  holy  as  Thou  art?  Through  Thee  alone 
Is  God  to  man  in  love  and  mercy  known. 


144 


In  Thy  commands  all  duty  lies  enshrined  ; 

From  beauty's  full  perfection  hast  Thou  shone, 
Thyself  more  fair  than  form  of  human  kind, 
And  Thou  alone  hast  peace   to   calm  the  troubled 
mind. 

How  ill  we  comprehend  Thy  word  of  life, 

And  what  laborious  helplessness  we  prove ; 
What  wars  we  wage,  what  unavailing  strife 

Within  our  souls  to  take  Thy  hand  of  love. 

Not  by  the  path  of  learning  must  they  move, 
Not  by  the  light  of  human  wisdom  see, 

Who  would  secure  the  wisdom  from  above. 
Humbler  the  way,  and  briefer  far  must  be — 
Faith  of  the  docile  heart,  which  rests  alone  on  Thee. 


What  blessed  transformations  have  been  wrought 
By  Thy  so  humble  life,  upon  mankind ; 

Hard-hearted  men  made  tender,  word  and  thought, 
The  once  polluted  chaste,  the  coarse  refined, 
The  timid  valiant,  and  the  wavering  mind 

Fixed  to  one  lofty  purpose.     That  which  sums 
Up  all  the  best  in  human  life  designed, 

And  all  the  grace  that  blesses  happiest  homes, 

Spring  up  along  the  path  by  which  Thy  mercy  comes. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "ALWYN."  145 

For  Thee  has  Genius  wreathed  the  bay  and  palm, 

For  Thee  the  sweetest  harps  on  earth  been  strung, 
Expectant  harmonies  of  Hebrew  psalm, 

And  pre-ordained  prophetic  pseans  sung. 

For  Thee,  before  Thy  wonderous  birth,  Thy  young 
And  virgin  mother  raised  the  adoring  strain. 

For  Thee  the  gates  of  heaven  were  open  flung, 
And  hymning  angels,  in  long,  choral  train, 
Issued  with  glorious  song  to  hail  Thy  earthly  reign. 

A  chorus  worthy  of  a  heavenly  choir, 

A  hymn  to  go  resounding  through  all  time, 
Announced  Thy  birth  in  spirit  of  a  higher 

Degree  of  being,  and  a  holier  clime. 

Thy  life  laborious,  suffering,  yet  sublime, 
In  singleness,  severity  of  aim, 

Though  brief,  and  closed  in  early  manhood's  prime, 
Beyond  all  measure  of  mere  mortal  fame, 
An  epic  grander  far  than  mind  of  man  could  frame. 
K 


WITHOUT  CHRIST. 


O  Christ,  the  world  is  dark — 
Ghostly  dark  for  me ; 

And  life  would  have  no  mark 
But  for  Thee. 


I  know  not  whence  I  came, 
Whither  I  must  go. 

Life  wavers  without  aim, 
To  and  fro. 


Nothing  seems  worth  my  love, 
Nothing  worth  my  care ; 

All  below,  all  above, 
Blank  and  bare. 


To  men  my  soul  would  close 
Her  gates,  and  decline 

Their  contact,  but  for  those 
Who  are  Thine. 


WITHOUT  CHRIST.  147 

This  weary,  hopeless  heart 

In  loneness  would  dwell 
In  the  furthest,  darkest  part 

Of  her  cell. 

And  when  near  to  life's  brink, 

Would  yield  what  it  gave, 
Without  a  word,  and  slink 

Into  the  grave. 

• 

There's  nothing  time  can  give, 

Nothing  I  could  be, 
For  which  'tis  worth  to  live 

But  for  Thee. 


LUCIA  D.  PYCHOWSKA. 
THE  BORDER  OF  THE  WILDERNESS. 

[Authoress.] 


Towering  heights  of  IngalPs  River, 
Fir-fringed  crests  of  Mount  Success, 

Pine  and  birch  and  maple  forests, 
Border  of  the  wilderness, — 

Darkening  in  the  evening  glory, 
Hiding  in  each  wild  ravine, 

Depths  of  life,  of  mystic  beauty, 
Never  yet  by  mortal  seen  : — 

Still  ye  beckon,  beckon  ever, 

Saying,  "  Come,  our  sister,  come  ! 

Quit  the  weary,  glaring  highways, 
Seek  within  our  shades  a  home. 

"  Firmly  stands  each  rocky  buttress, 
Bears  aloft  scant  growth  of  trees, 
Deep  beneath,  sweet  waters  pouring, 
Mingle  music  with  the  breeze. 


THE  BORDER  OF  THE  WILDERNESS.      149 

Come,  O  sister,  come  and  rest  thee  ! 

Thou  and  we  are  thoughts  of  God, 
Friends  alone  thou'lt  find  among  us, 

Friends  who  wield  no  critic's  rod. 


"  If  thy  locks  have  lost  their  shining, 

Tresses  grey  our  limbs  adorn  : 
If  thy  brow  be  sadly  furrowed, 
Wrinkled  we  ere  thou  wast  born. 


"  If  the  young  have  ceased  to  love  thee, 

Shun  they  too  our  awesome  ways ; 
If  thy  steps  have  lost  their  fleetness, 
Stand  we  here  these  myriad  days. 

"  Feel'st  thy  shadow  darkening  eastward, 

We  against  the  twilight  show, 
But  we  know  the  dawn  returneth, 
Wait  with  us  that  blessed  glow." 


HENRY  J.  VAN  DYKE. 

(CLASS  OF  "  1873.") 

THE  WINGS  OF  A  DOVE. 


At  sunset,  when  the  rosy  light  was  dying 
Swift  down  the  pathway  of  the  west, 

I  saw  a  lonely  dove  in  silence  flying 
To  be  at  rest. 

Emblem  of  peace,  I  cried,  could  I  but  borrow 
Thy  pinions  fleet,  thy  freedom  blest, 

I'd  fly  away  from  every  careful  sorrow 
And  be  at  rest! 

At  twilight  through  the  shadows  softly  falling, 
Back  came  the  dove  to  seek  her  nest : 

In  the  deep  wood  from  which  her  mate  was  calling 
There  was  true  rest. 

Peace,  heart  of  mine !  no  longer  sigh  to  wander, 

Vex  not  thyself  in  fruitless  quest, 
There  are  no  happy  islands  ovet  yonder, — 

Come  home  and  rest. 


HENRY  J.  VAN  DYKE. 
THE  AFTER-ECHO. 


When  the  long  echoes  die  away 
Along  the  shores  of  silence,  as  a  wave, 
Retreating,  circles  down  the  sand ; —    . 

When,  one  by  one,  with  sweet  delay 
The  mellow  sounds  that  cliff  and  island  gave 

Have  lingered  in  the  crescent  bay, 
Until  by  lightest  breezes  fanned 

They  float  far  off  into  the  dying  day, 
And  all  is  still  as  death, 

Then  listen  !  Hark  !- 
A  slender  wavering  breath 

Comes  from  the  borders  of  the  dark, 
A  note  as  clear  and  slow 

As  falls  from  some  enchanted  bell, 
Or  spirit,  passing  from  the  world  below 

That  whispers  back — Farewell. 
So  in  the  heart 

When,  slowly  fading  down  the  past, 
Fond  memories  depart, 

And  each  that  leaves  it  seems  the  last, 


152  THE   AFTEK-ECHO. 

Long  after  all  the  rest  are  gone, 
Comes  back  a  well-remembered  tone, 
The  after-echo  of  departed  years, 
And  touches  all  the  soul  to  tears. 


LYMAN    WHITNEY    ALLEN. 

(CLASS  OF  "1881.") 
THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY. 

THE    VENUS    DI    MILO. 

[From  the  Art-Cycle.] 

There  is  never  a  path  with  its  thorny  way 
Under  heavy  burdens  our  feet  have  trod, 

But  10  ill  bear  the  prints  to  endless  day 
Of  the  bleeding  feet  of  the  Son  of  God. 

— M.  I. 

Goddess  of  love,  yet  marble :  warm,  yet  cold  : 
Speechless,  yet  speaking  from  thine  earnest  eyes : 
Proud  lips  in  nestling  scorn  and  stern  surprise, 
Wreathing  a  smile  o'er  wealth  of  yearnful  mould 
Bosom  whose  arching  splendors  full  unfold 
Slow  heaving  swells  of  slumbering  sacrifice ; 
Fair  limbs  imperious  in  their  draped  disguise 
Shining  through  trembling  spray  of  ocean  old  ; 
Mysterious  Goddess  !    through  thy  marble  form, 
Wrought  by  the  throes  of  toiling  centuries, 
The  writhing  spirit  bursts  the  lifeless  stone ; 
Through  the  incarnate  passion,  deep  and  warm, 
The  human  Infinite  transcends  the  skies, 
And  sits  enthroned  on  the  eternal  throne. 


THE  MADONNA  DEL  SISTO. 

[From  the  Art-Cycle.'] 


Virgin  outwoven  of  God's  prophecies  ! 
Woman  of  earth-born  race  and  heaven- worn  face, 
Rapt  in  majestic  gladness  and  sweet  grace, 

Stamping  fair  Christ  upon  the  centuries  ; — 

Eyes  orient  with  Heaven's  mysteries, 
In  frightened  joy  beaming  triumphant  praise  ; 
Lips  breathing  bliss  of  Christ's  dear  kiss  the  trace 

In  widening  curves  of  tremulous  ecstasies. 

Beauty  that  baffles  art !    Sweet  heaven  that  bends 
Earth  to  its  knees  with  higher  instincts  wrought ! 

Woman,  that  moulds  the  life  of  the  wide  years ! 

Interpreter  of  Man  !  through  thee  ascends, 
Lifting  vast  worlds  unto  God's  perfect  thought, 

Love,  the  redeeming  power  that  sways  the  spheres. 


CARL  GUTHERZ'  "ECCE  HOMO." 


O  rare  pale  face !  sacredly  beautiful 
With  flowing  locks  of  richest  auburn  hue — 
A  crown  within  a  crown — whose  ringlets  strew 

Their  silken  wealth  o'er  brow  most  sorrowful ; 

Fair  eyes,  from  out  whose  azure  pitiful 
A  pleading  glory  shines  through  crystal  dew ; 
Sweet  quivering  lips  that  breathe  a  blessing  new, 

In  silent  woe  of  love  most  tenderful. 

Lone-splendored  Head,  that  bowed  unto  the  tomb ! 
Thou  risest  in  thy  majesty  divine, 
Victorious  o'er  thy  mighty  agony. 

Thou  thorn-crowned  Christ !  through  the  bewildering 

gloom, 

Forevermore  thy  radiant  face  shall  shine, 
The  beacon-light  of  Immortality. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  HELL-SPIRIT. 


I  flew  to  the  blossoming  earth, 

And  sipped  of  its  honeyed  flowers  ; 
I  played  in  fierce  joy  and  mirth 

Thro7  the  golden  summer  hours. 
I  sipped  of  the  lily-bell 

From  its  white  translucent  cup, 
But  a  red  stain  on  it  fell 

And  drank  all  the  whiteness  up. 


I  sat  on  the  sandy  shore 

And  played  with  the  feathery  spray ; 
I  dived  'neath  the  waste  sea's  roar, 

Where  the  sunbeams  never  stray. 
But  the  silver  waves  grew  red, 

Like  the  blood  of  some  monster  slain ; 
And  over  their  ocean-bed 

Hoarsely  murmured  their  sad  refrain. 


I  sped  through  the  ebon  night, 
Through  the  realms  of  the  trembling  stars 


THE   SONG   OF  THE   HELL-SPIRIT.  157 

To  the  whirling  orbs  of  light 

In  their  golden  orient  cars. 
But  the  shining  mists  grew  dim, 

While  the  moon  waxed  fiery  red, 
And  o'er  the  horizon's  brim 

Its  baleful  effulgence  spread. 

I  soared  till  my  wearied  wings 

Poised  high  o'er  the  gates  of  light, 
Where  the  great  World-Spirit  sings 

Through  the  darkling  Infinite ; 
But  the  song  hushed  to  a  moan 

That  thrilled  thro''  the  fretted  space, 
And  a  glistening  tear-drop  shone 

On  a  pale  and  upturned  face. 


ALAS. 

My  heart  is  sad  with  waiting,  Love, 

Waiting  for  thee ; 
My  eyes  are  dim  with  watching,  Love, 

Watching  for  thee. 

The  sunlight  fades,  the  night  draws  nigh, 
The  stars  come  forth  in  the  clear  sky, 
I  sit  alone, — alone,  and  sigh, 

Sighing  for  thee. 

My  heart  is  faint  with  longing,  Love, 

Longing  for  thee ; 
My  eyes  are  worn  with  weeping,  Love, 

Weeping  for  thee. 

The  night  winds  murmur  as  they  pass 
Trailing  thy  name  through  the  long  grass 
My  soul  cries  out,  alas  !  alas ! 

Alas  for  me ! 


COENELIA   PEAKSON. 

SCENE  IN  A  STUDIO. 


[Authoress  of  "  Wreaths  and  Branches."*] 

A  distinguished  sculptor  destroyed  some  of  his  finest  works,  that 
they  might  not  fall  into  the  hands  of  an  inexorable  creditor. 

'Tis  midnight,  yet  a  flickering  torch  still  gleams 

Within  the  sculptor's  studio,  whose  light 

Gives  a  new  beauty  to  those  forms  of  grace, 

The  emanations  of  a  master  mind, 

And  called  to  life  by  his  creative  power. 

The  artist  grasps  his  chisel,  but  the  glow 

That  mantles  high  upon  his  brow  is  not 

The  fire  of  new-born  inspiration, 

For  Prometheus'  self  ne'er  wore  a  look 

Of  such  despairing  agony.     Oh  !  sure 

It  were  a  glorious  thing  to  people  earth 

With  thoughts  made  palpable,  and  chaining  thus 

The  lightning-fire  of  heaven,  bid  it  flash  forth 

From  lip  and  brow,  instinct  with  Majesty  ! 

Yes :  Genius  is  a  gift  unparalleled, 

But  guarded  round  with  fearful  swords  of  flame, 

That  foot  profane  tread  not  the  hallowed  ground. 


160  SCENE    IN   A   STUDIO. 

But  what  is  this  ?     Has  frenzy  seized  his  brain  ? 
Quick  falls  the  mallet,  not  with  well-aimed  stroke 
To  guide  the  skillful  chisel,  and  perfect 
The  fair  proportions. — Stay  thy  hand,  rash  man ! 
Comes  there  no  voice  from  this,  the  beauteous  child 
Of  thy  creative  thought,  which  cries,  "  Forbear !" 
One  hour  of  madness  must  not  thus  destroy 
The  labour  of  thy  ripened  years. 

'Tis  done  !     The  shivering  marble  falls  around 
The  woe-bewildered  man,  who  gazes  now 
With  tearless  eye  upon  that  martyred  one, 
Whose  shapeless  trunk  but  seems  his  agony 
To  mock  :  yet  onward  recklessly  he  goes, 
And  all  the  beauteous  ones  that  he  had  loved 
The  Venus  fair,  the  Manes  of  ancient  gods, 
The  bust  of  heroes,  and  the  dream-like  ones 
With  their  life's  fountain  faintly  gushing  forth 
From  out  the  stricken  rock,  at  his  command 
All — all  must  perish ! 
O  ruin  dire !  yet,  sadder  still  the  wreck 
Of  mind,  which  misery  hath  wrought. 


ELIZABETH  THOMPSON  SMITH. 

A  PARTING  WORD. 


Written  on  her  death-bed  two  hours  before  she  died. 

A  parting  word — if  power  were  mine, 
What  most  I  vahie  should  be  thine, 
The  brightest  gem  in  diadem 

To  deck  thy  brow, 
The  fairest  flower  in  garden  bower, 

Fd  gather  now. 

The  Pearl  of  Price,  that  gem  should  be 
The  thornless  Rose,  my  gift  to  thee. 
L 


E.  P.  B. 
THE  VEIL  OF  THE  SPIRIT. 


The  face  is  the  veil  of  the  spirit, 
Worn  strangely  two  worlds  between, 

And  until  at  death  it  be  lifted, 
The  wearer  shall  never  be  seen. 


We  meet,  and  we  talk,  and  we  linger, 
We  mix  with  women  and  men  ; 

But  the  soul,  after  all  is  over, 
Makes  only  a  sign  now  and  then. 

• 
And  the  sign  is  that  of  a  shadow 

Cast  through  a  doubtful  screen  : 
Ah  !  the  only  things  that  we  ever  see 
Are  the  things  that  are  all  unseen. 


THE  TWO  CITIES. 


[From  Littell's  Living  Age.~\ 

By  the  city  of  the  living, 

By  its  ceaseless  toil  and  tread, 
So  fair  and  so  forgiving, 

Stands  the  city  of  the  dead. 
Like  twins,  in  a  rocking  cradle, 

They  lie  in  the  darkness  deep, 
And  one  is  awake  with  a  fever, 

But  the  other  is — asleep. 

Side  by  side  rise  the  two  great  cities, 

Afar  on  the  traveller's  sight : 
One,  black  with  the  dust  of  labor, 

One,  solemnly  still  and  white. 
Apart,  and  yet  together, 

They  are  reached  in  a  dying  breath, 
But  a  river  flows  between  them, 

And  the  river's  name  is — Death. 


Anon,  from  the  hut  and  the  palace, 
Anon,  from  early  till  late, 


164  THE   TWO   CITIES. 

They  come  rich  and  poor  together 
Asking  alms  at  thy  beautiful  gate. 

And  never  had  life  a  guerdon 
So  welcome  to  all  to  give, 

In  the  land  where  the  living  are  dying, 
As  the  land  where  the  dead  may  live. 


And  thus  the  two  great  cities 

Of  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Stand  side  by  side  in  their  shadow, 

And  the  river  flows  on  in  its  bed. 
But  the  river  leans  a  little 

Under  the  further  brink ; 
And  I  love  to  lean  with  the  river 

To  that  shaded  side — and  think. 


In  one  there  is  soft-winged  slander, 

And  rumour  of  windy  deeds ; 
In  the  other  a  well-kept  secret, 

And  a  riddle  that  nobody  reads. 
In  one  they  are  bitterly  turning 

Their  faces  in  anger  away ; 
In  the  other  they  meet  for  forgiveness, 

Face  to  face  in  the  blinding  clay. 


THE   TWO   CITIES.  165 

In  one  the  lights  are  burning 

In  the  window  and  the  street, 
For  a  thousand  forms  returning, 

For  a  thousand  eager  feet. 
In  the  other  the  lights  of  Heaven 

Gleam  down  through  the  mist  of  doubt ; 
And  the  virgin  stars  are  shining 

For  the  lamps  that  have  all  gone  out. 

O  silent  City  of  refuge  ! 

On  the  way  to  the  city  overhead, 
The  gleam  of  thy  marble  milestones 

Tells  the  distance  we  are  from  the  dead. 
Full  of  feet,  but  a  city  untrodden  ; 

Full  of  hands,  but  a  city  unbuilt; 
Full  of  strangers  who  know  not  even 

That  their  life-cup  lies  there  spilt. 

They  know  not  the  tomb  from  the  palace, 

They  dream  not  they  ever  have  died  : 
God  be  thanked  they  never  will  know  it 

Till  they  live  on  the  other  side. 
From  the  doors  that  death  shut  coldly 

On  the  face  of  their  last  lone  woe, 
They  came  to  thy  glades  for  shelter, 

Who  had  nowhere  else  to  go. 


166  THE   TWO   CITIES. 

They  sought  thy  quiet  slumber 

With  a  strange  and  winged  haste : 
As  a  wrecking  ship  in  the  tempest 

An  isle,  in  the  billowy  waste. 
They  fled  to  thy  sable  forest 

As  dust  is  blown  by  the  breeze ; 
When  the  little  children,  frightened, 

Run  out  of  the  rain,  under  trees. 

O  city  of  the  Silent ! 

What  a  world  lies  in  your  spell, 
What  an  army  of  pale-face  pilgrims 

Encamped  in  yon  white-tented  dell. 
Like  the  dark  room  in  the  household, 

Thick  with  cobwebs,  and  mould  and  rust, 
And  filled  with  old-fashioned  remnants, 

Is  thy  dark  room  of  the  dust. 

Creation  is  God's  cenotaph 

Above  Christ's  unstoned  grave ; 
Unmarked  of  shaft  or  marble, 

Unsung  of  wind  or  wave. 
And  'mid  all  the  glittering  planets 

That  fling  their  crowns  on  space, 
Earth  is  the  only  star  that  holds 

Their  monarch's  resting-place. 


THE   TWO   CITIES.  167 

Shall  the  flower  come  up  forever  ? 

And  daisy  and  buttercup 
Catch  part  of  God's  smile  off  in  heaven, 

And  never  a  soul  come  up  ? 
E'en  now  they  are  teaching  us  thither, 

As  nurses  teach  children  to  walk ; 
And  I  hear  their  sweet  tones,  Come  up  hither, 

And  the  air  is  full  of  their  talk. 

And  I  feel  as  I  fall  to  thinking 

That  my  face  is  dusty  with  death  : 
I  may  wash  it  with  sleep  for  a  moment, 

But  it  settles  again  with  my  breath. 
And  I  know  that  I  soon  shall  mingle 

With  those  whose  footsteps  are  fled, 
Who  dwell  in  the  crowded  city, — 

The  city  of  the  dead. 

O  grave!  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  death  !  where  is  thy  sting  ? 
And  what  is  thy  raven  shadow 

But  the  shadow  of  a  wing  ? 
And  what  if  the  dead  hear  nothing 

Beneath  the  closed  door; 
Since  we  who  listen  in  open  space 

If  we  hear,  hear  nothing  more. 


ANONYMOUS. 

GRADUATION  SONG. 


Ho,  students  !  come  out ! 

Swarm  here  on  this  mellow  old  sod,  where  for  years, 
In  these  hours  of  suspense  we  have  cheated  our  tears, 
With  hopes,  reminiscences,  songs,  ringing  cheers : — 
Hasten  out. 

Join  your  hands,  clear  the  brow, 
7Tis  the  hour  for  our  fond  Alma  Mater  to  wean 
Her  young  brood  of  the  year ;  oh  !  how  often  in  vain, 
Shall  we  yearn  for  her  wing  of  protection  again, 
In  this  nest. 

Dear  nest,  oh  !  how  calm 

Will  it  seem,  when  life's  tempests  shall  gather  and  beat 
Cold,  fierce  and  remorseless :  and  manhood  must  meet, 
Oh,  how  calm. 

And  yet  here,  where  we  stand, 
Aye,  on  this  very  sod  which  we  press,  unconcerned, 
How  many  brave  breasts  to  the  future  have  turned — 


GRADUATION  SONG.  169 

How  many  have  grasped  her  vain  promise  and  burned 
For  the  strife. 

And  where  are  they  now  ? 

Some  petted  by  fortune,  some  brilliant,  some  great, 
With  their  names  on  the  roll  and  their  voice  in  the  state, 
Yet  with  giiawings  unsatisfied,  chafing  at  fate 
Evermore. 

Aye !  where  are  they  now  ? 

Some  wasted,  forgotten,  some  outcast,  some  gone ; 
Life's  solemn  procession  sweeps  endlessly  on  ; 
Are  we  ready  to  join  it?     Probation  is  done, 
It  is  late. 

Farewell,  boys,  farewell. 

May  we  all  meet  again  in  our  Summer  of  life ; 
In  its  Autumn,  subdued  and  instructed  by  strife ; 
In  its  Winter  of  age  and  repose,  ere  the  knife 
Cuts  us  down. 

And,  mother,  farewell : 

The  gusts  thro7  the  halls  pass  away  with  a  sigh ; 
Your  breezes  embrace,  as  the  last  moments  fly, 
The  branches  above  wave  a  silent  good-bye, 
So  farewell. 


CAKOLINE  HANNA  PAXTON. 
TO- 


Authoress  of  a  volume  of  unpublished  Poems. 

O  were  I  yonder  star,  my  love ! 

And  thou  beneath  rny  beam  shouldst  stray, 
How  brightly  would  I  smile  above, 

To  light  thee  on  thy  lonely  way  ! 

O  were  I,  sweet,  but  zephyr  now ! 

Fresh  wafted  from  the  balmy  west, 
I'd  lay  my  touch  upon  thy  brow, 

And  hover  round  thy  fevered  rest. 

O  were  I  yonder  bird  so  gay  ! 

And  thou  within  my  shaded  bower 
I'd  sing  my  sweetest  roundelay 

To  soothe  thy  spirit's  troubled  hour. 

O  were  I  but  a  rose  so  fair  ! 

Within  thy  bosom  thus  to  lie, 
I'd  breathe  my  sweetest  odors  there, 

To  mingle  with  thy  faintest  sigh. 


E.  A.  K. 

[By  a  Lady.] 
A   FRAGMENT. 


For  ah,  did  the  angel  of  peace  ever  roam 

On  an  errand  of  love  from  her  beautiful  home, 

She  hath  certainly  paused  in  her  holy  career, 

And  folded  her  pinions  enchantingly  here; 

Dear  to  me  are  thy  shades  where  no  sound  may  be  heard, 

Save  the  soul-soothing  strains  of  thy  harmonist  bird, 

For  they  seem  on  the  soft  wing  of  quiet  to  come, 

Like  ethereal  melodies  luring  us  home, — 

Faint  breathings  from  heaven,  to  bid  us  prepare, 

For  peals  of  celestial  minstrelsy  there. 

But  oh  !  when  day  rests  on  the  portals  of  eve, 
As  tho'  loth  the  bright  scene  of  enchantment  to  leave ; 
While  its  drapery  of  gold  hurried  carelessly  on, 
Fades  away,  tint  by  tint,  till  at  last  all  are  gone ; 
Methinks,  'tis  an  emblem  of  life's  little  hour, 
Thus  perish  the  hues  of  hope's  loveliest  flower, 
And  sigh  for  repose  on  that  heavenly  shore, 
Where  the  day  is  eternal,  and  change  is  no  more. 


ALAMBY  MILLEE. 

TO i-. 


Though  short  the  time  since  our  first  meeting, 
And  I  must  now  prepare  to  part, 

Those  interviews,  so  sweet,  so  fleeting, 
Have  left  their  impress  on  my  heart ; 

And  though  thy  heart  is  naught  affected, 

And  I  may  soon  forgotten  be, 
To  love — though  but  to  be  rejected, — 

Is  all  the  fate  that's  left  for  me. 


Long  years  ago,  a  bird  who  wended 
Her  way  to  some  far-distant  land, 

Upon  a  river's  bank  descended 

And  left  her  foot-print  on  the  sand. 

Lightly  she  rose  and  left  the  river, 

And  onward  kept  her  thoughtless  way, 

The  sand  she  pressed  forgets  her  never, 
And  hard  rock  bears  her  print  to-day. 


173 


Thus  will  my  heart,  till  its  warm  beatings 
Are  stilled  fore'er  in  death's  cold  shade, 

Cherish  the  memory  of  our  meetings, 
And  keep  the  impress  thou  hast  made. 


ONLY  A  CURL. 


One  little  curl  of  golden  hair, 

Yet  how  many  memories  centre  there ! 

Of  deep  blue  eyes  so  soft,  so  bright, 

Now  melting  in  love,  now  laughing  in  light, 

Sweet  founts  whence  the  crystal  tears  would  flow 

Unbidden  at  every  tale  of  woe. 

Ah !  why  are  those  bright  eyes  gleaming  there 

In  that  little  curl  of  golden  hair  ! 


It  brings  back  cheeks  that  mocked  the  rose, 
And  the  brow  that  was  whiter  than  winter  snows, 
And  the  smiling  lip  and  the  dimpled  chin 
That  told  of  the  joyous  heart  within, 
And  the  little  hand  that  in  his  would  rest 
Like  the  trembling  bird  in  her  hidden  nest, 
In  those  days  that  knew  not  of  sorrow  or  care, — 
All  these  are  seen  in  that  curl  of  hair. 


It  recalls  the  arbor  beneath  whose  shade 

True  love  was  breathed  and  fond  vows  were  made, 


ONLY   A   CUKL.  175 

And  the  shadowy  lane  where  oft  they  roved 
In  the  twilight  hour  by  the  poet  loved, 
And  the  dear  old  house  in  the  distant  town, 
(Strangers  have  long  ago  torn  it  down,) 
But  they  can't  destroy  it,  it  lingers  there 
In  that  little  curl  of  her  beautiful  hair. 

It  whispers  of  love  so  fond  and  true, 
And  the  look  that  told  him  that  she  loved  too, 
And  the  sweet  betrothal,  when  from  her  brow 
He  cut  the  lock  that's  before  him  now, 
And  the  fatal  day  that  saw  them  part, 
And  a  black-sealed  letter — a  broken  heart. 
•Love  and  hope,  and  woe  and  despair, 
All  are  told  by  that  golden  hair. 

The  present  has  vanished,  the  past  is  here 
With  its  scenes  so  happy,  its  forms  so  dear. 
From  out  the  dark  tomb's  dismal  hall 
That  little  curl  has  brought  them  all. 
One  little  curl  of  golden  hair, 
And  all  that  he  ever  has  loved  is  there. 


"  I  AM  FREE." 


({ I  am  free,"  laughs  the  stream,  as  all  rippling  and  leaping 

O'er  rock  and  through  meadow  it  speeds  on  its  way, 
Now  dancing  in  sunlight,  in  shadow  now  sleeping 

Now  foaming  and  angry,  now  sparkling  and  gay. 
The  stream  may  flow  on  till  it  swell  to  a  river, 

May  wind  as  it  will,  and  may  say  "  I  am  free," 
But  the  voice  of  the  oceansurge  calls  it  forever, 

And  however  it  flow,  it  must  flow  to  the  sea. 


"  I  am  free,"  sings  the  air,  "  and  no  power  can  constrain 
me 

To  wind  in  a  valley,  or  flow  to  a  sea, 
No  banks  can  enclose  me,  no  barriers  restrain  me, 

Of  all  of  earth's  creatures  I  only  am  free." 
But  a  chain  all  unseen  ever  fetters  its  motion, 

And  back  to  the  earth  holds  its  uprising  wing, 
It  may  sigh  thro'  the  forest  or  roar  on  the  ocean, 

It  may  sweep  round  the  earth,  but  to  earth  it  must 
cling. 


"I   AM   FKEE."  177 

"  We  are  free,"  shout  the  comets,  as  in  their  wild  courses 

They  fly  in  derision  by  planets  and  stars, 
While  out  in  bright  flame  stream   the  manes  of  the 
horses 

That  hurry  through  aether  their  luminous  cars. 
The  comet  may  rush  to  the  verge  of  creation, 

Far  beyond  our  weak  vision  its  course  it  may  run, 
But  still  it  obeys  the  strong  hand,  Gravitation, 

And  again  in  its  course  'twill  return  to  the  sun. 

"  I  am  free,"  cries  the  spirit  of  Youth,  "on  strong  pinion 

Where'er  my  gay  fancy  may  list  I  can  rove ; " 
But  one  power  still  maintains  an  unbroken  dominion, 

'Tis  the  soul's  gravitation — the  sweet  force  of  love. 
The  sea  whose  sweet  musical  voices  e'er  call  me, 

My  earth  and  my  sun  are  all  centred  in  thee, 
From  their  sweet  strong  attractions  that  ever  enthrall 
me 

I  am  not,  and  Oh !  may  I  never  be  free ! 
M 


A  FRAGMENT. 


But  when  the  idol  of  my  heart's  devotion 

I  think  to  seize  and  bind  with  memory's  chain, 

Striving  to  reach  it,  mad  with  fond  emotion, 
It  flies,  and  I  sink  back  to  toil  and  pain ; 

As  some  lost  swimmer  on  a  stormy  ocean 

Looks  on  the  distant  lights  he  ne'er  can  gain, 

And  sinks  to  death  murmuring  a  once  loved  name. 


ANONYMOUS. 

A  LOST  SOUL. 


I  met  a  soul  at  midnight  far  out  upon  the  deep, 

It  dreamed  not  with  my  dreaming,  it  slept  not  with  my 

sleep ; 
A  face  that  I  had  met  on  earth,  a  face  that  once  was 

fair, 
I  saw  it,  and  it  wore  the  wild  worn  beauty  of  despair. 

I  asked  it  of  the  tearless  grief  that  gathered  to  its  eye, 
I  asked  it  of  that  calm  despair,  that  death  that  ne'er  can 

die. 
I  asked  it  whither  it  was  bound,  what  countries  it  had 

crossed ; 
It  pointed  to  Eternity,  and  only  answered — Lost. 

Else  answerl  ess,  it  floated  by  upon  the  midnight  air, 
Till,  like  the  gliding  of  a  ghost  its  spirit  was  not  there; 
I  rose  to  follow  it — I  woke — O  God!  that  soul  was 

mine, 
The  shadow  of  that  dream  may  fall  upon  some  sleep  of 

thine. 


180  A   LOST   SOUL. 

Some  startled  sleep  amid  the  night  of  life's  entrancing 

ease, 
That  takes  the  sleeper  to  its  breast,  that  leaves  him  on 

his  knees  ; 

And  if  it  come,  O  scorn  it  not,  however  light  it  seem  : 
Men  have  been  saved  ere  this  within  the  passing  of  a 

dream. 

O  to  be  lost  in  such  a  night  or  wrecked  on  such  a  sea, 
No  port, — no  light, — no  shore, — no  God ; — naught  but 

Eternity, 

To  sob  along  the  outer  wall  forever  unforgiven, 
Whose  inner  arches  ring  with  all  the  happiness  of  heaven. 


KOSA. 
"WE  WERE  FRIENDS  TOGETHER." 

[Authoress  of  "  Poems."] 


We  were  friends,  gay  friends,  together, 

And  a  strange,  deep  gloom  is  shed 
On  the  memories  that  wither 

Since  I  feel  that  thou  art  dead. 
Many  a  dear  and  cherished  token 

Of  our  youth's  too  cloudless  dawn, 
Is  all  ruined  now,  and  broken 

In  my  heart,  for  thou  art  gone. 

We  were  friends,  when  joy's  light  measure 

From  life's  golden  harp  was  rung, 
And  the  ripening  fruits  of  pleasure 

All  along  our  pathway  hung. 
When  no  glad  warm  thought  repressing 

Heart  and  soul  laughed  from  our  eyes, 
As  the  light  of  God's  own  blessing 

Laughs  in  sunshine  from  the  skies. 


182 


When  the  present  was  too  cheerful 

To  regret  a  pleasure  past, 
Or  to  tremble  and  be  fearful 

That  they  would  not  always  last. 
E're  we  learned  that  all  too  often 

In  the  fairest  blossom's  cup, 
(Tho'  its  tints  the  south  winds  soften,) 

There  is  poison  folded  up. 

We  were  friends,  when  every  feeling 

Was  as  warm  and  pure  and  bright 
As  the  summer  air  when  reeling 

'.Neath  a  weight  of  amber  light. 
And  as  tuneful  as  the  gushes 

Of  some  merry  little  stream, 
When  the  wind  steals  thro'  the  rushes 

On  its  dimpled  breast  to  dream. 

In  a  southern  clime  we  wandered, 

And  thro'  gardens  whose  perfume 
Crowds  of  regal  roses  squandered 

From  their  treasuries  of  bloom. 
And  where  starry  myrtles  quivered 

'Neath  the  kisses  of  the  spring, 
Pure  as  flakes  of  snow  dissever 

From  the  white  cloud's  spotless  wing. 


"WE    WERE    FRIENDS   TOGETHER."  183 

There  by  moonlight  oft  we  revelled, 

Or,  when  morning's  orient  crown, 
Like  an  angel's  hair  dishevelled, 

From  the  blue  sky  floated  down. 
In  rich  waves  of  sunlight  weeping, 

When  magnolia's  blooms  were  seen, 
Like  a  flock  of  white  doves  peeping 

From  their  hermitage  of  green. 

We  were  friends  when  smiles  of  gladness 

Lit  thy  boyhood's  stately  home, 
E're  we  dreamed  that  so  much  sadness 

There  in  after  years  would  come. 
Many  dwelt  at  that  proud  manor, 

Yet  no  heir  is  left  to  claim 
Or  to  spread  the  stainless  honor 

Of  an  old  and  cherished  name. 

But  tho'  brief  our  summer  meeting, 

Thou  art  only  gone  before, 
And  my  spirit  sends  thee  greeting 

To  that  far-off  Eden  shore, 
Where  the  dews  of  youth  still  glisten, 

And  sweet  fancies  seem  to  tell 
That  thine  angel  ear  will  listen 

To  the  voice  of  my  farewell. 


ANNIS  STOCKTON  HOWELL. 

RECOMPENSE. 

[Author 'ess. ,] 


In  a  still  and  beauteous  bower, 
Gemmed  with  many  a  lovely  flower, 
Where  the  sun  is  shining  brightly — 
Where  the  zephyrs,  playing  lightly, 
Whisper  words  of  tenderest  love, 
From  the  blessed  world  above  ; 
There,  a  prisoner,  sigheth  one ! 
'Mid  this  beauty,  she  alone 
Weeps  the  passing  hours  away, 
Longing  for  the  close  of  day  ; 
There — in  solitary  state, 
A  lone  bird  sighing  for  its  mate. 


Not  for  her  the  sun  is  shining  ! 
Not  for  her  these  flowers  twining ! 
Words  of  love  the  zephyrs  sing, 
But  no  cheer  for  her  they  bring ! 
Who  are  they  that  dwell  above  ? 


RECOMPENSE.  185 

What  know  they  of  pain  or  love  ? 
What  to  her  that  beauteous  bower  ? 
Welcome,  blighting  wind  and  shower, 
Droop  your  heads,  ye  flowers  of  spring, 
And  ye  birds,  forget  to  sing. 
Aught  but  dirge  for  her  sad  fate, 
A  lone  bird,  sighing  for  its  mate  ! 

But  lo !  at  evening's  gentle  close 

A  nightingale's  sweet  song  arose 

So  subtle  was  this  wondrous  song 

No  human  voice  could  give  it  tongue 

A  voice  from  regions  of  the  blest, 

A  song  of  weariness  at  rest, 

Tones  from  a  heart  where  all  is  peace, 

And  perfect  love  that  cannot  cease : 

Where  love  and  care  and  grief  have  striven, 

There  reigneth  now  the  bliss  of  heaven  ; 

The  lone  bird  only  sings  so  late — 

A  love  bird  singing  to  its  mate. 


GEOKGE  W.  BETHUNE. 
THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY. 

IT  IS  NOT  DEATH  TO  DIE. 

[Author  of  "Poems."] 


It  is  not  death  to  die, 

To  leave  this  weary  road, 

And  'mid  the  brotherhood  on  high 
To  be  at  home  with  God. 


It  is  not  death  to  close 

The  eye  long  dimmed  by  tears, 
And  wake  in  glorious  repose 

To  spend  eternal  years. 


It  is  not  death  to  bear 

The  wrench  that  sets  us  free 

From  prison-bars,  to  breathe  the  air 
Of  boundless  liberty. 


IT   IS   NOT   DEATH   TO    DIE.  187 

It  is  not  death  to  fling 

Aside  this  sinful  dust, 
And  rise  on  strong,  exulting  wing, 

To  live  among  the  just. 

Jesus !  Thou  Prince  of  life  ! 

Thy  chosen  cannot  die  ; 
Like  thee  they  conquer  in  the  strife, 

To  reign  with  thee  on  high. 


THE  STRIFE  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


Within  its  downy  cradle  there  lay  a  little  child, 
And  a  group  of  hovering  angels  unseen  upon  her  smiled, 
When  a  strife  arose  among  them — a  holy,  loving  strife, 
Which  should  shed  the  richest  blessing  upon  the  new- 
born life. 


One  breathed  upon  her  features,  and  the  babe  in  beauty 

grew, 
With  a  cheek  like  morning  blushes,  and  an  eye  of  azure 

hue, 

Till  every  one  who  saw  her  was  thankful  for  the  sight 
Of  a  face  so  sweet  and  radiant  with  ever  fresh  delight. 

Another  gave  her  accents  and  a  voice  as  musical 

As  a  spring-bird's  joyous  carol  or  a  rippling  streamlet's 

fall, 
Till  all  who  heard  her  laughter  or  her  words  of  childish 

grace, 
Loved  as  much  to  listen  to  her  as  to  look  into  her  face. 


THE   STRIFE   OF   THE   ANGELS.  189 

Another  brought  from  Heaven  a  clear  and  gentle  mind, 

And  within  the  lovely  casketing  the  precious  gem  en- 
shrined, 

Till  all  who  knew  her  wondered  that  God  should  be  so 
good 

As  to  bless  with  such  a  spirit  a  world  so  cold  and  rude. 

Thus  did  she  grow  in  beauty,  in  melody  and  truth, 
The  budding  of  her  childhood  just  opening  into  youth, 
And  to  our  hearts  yet  dearer  each  moment  than  before, 
She  became,  though  we  tho't  fondly  we  could  not  love 
her  more. 

Then  out  spake  another  angel,  all  brighter  than  the  rest, 
As  with  strong  arm,  yet  tender,  he  caught  her  to  his 

breast, 
Ye  have  made  her  all  too  lovely  for  a  child  of  mortal 

race, 
But  no  shade  of  human  sorrow  shall  darken  her  fair 

face. 

Ye  have  tuned  to  gladness  only  the  accents  of  her  tongue, 
And  no  wail  of  human  anguish  shall  from  her  lips  be 

wrung ; 

Nor  shall  the  soul  that  shineth  so  purely  from  within 
That  form  of  earth-born  frailty  ever  know  a  sense  of  sin . 


190  THE  STRIFE   OF   THE   ANGELS. 

Lulled  in  my  faithful  bosom,  I  will  bear  her  far  away, 
Where  there  is  no  sin  nor  anguish,  no  sorrow  or  decay ; 
And  mine  a  boon  more  glorious  than  all  your  gifts  shall 

be, 
Lo  !   I  crown  her  happy  spirit  with  Immortality. 

Then  on  his  heart  our  darling  yielded  up  her  gentle 

breath, 
For  the  stronger,  brighter  angel,  who  loved  her  best 

was — Death. 


NIGHT  STUDY. 


I  am  alone — :and  yet 
In  the  still  solitude  there  is  a  rush 

Around  me,  as  were  met 
A  crowd  of  viewless  wings,  I  hear  a  gush 
Of  mystic  harmonies — heaven  meeting  earth, 
Making  it  to  rejoice  with  holy  mirth. 

Ye  winged  phantasies, 
Sweeping  before  my  spirit's  conscious  eye, 

Calling  me  to  arise, 

To  go  forth  with  you  from  my  very  self  and  fly 
Far  into  the  unseen,  unknown  Immense 
Of  worlds  beyond  our  sphere,  what  are  ye  ?     Whence  ? 

Ye  eloquent  voices, 
Now  soft  as  breathings  of  a  distant  lute, 

Now  strong  as  when  rejoices 
The  trumpet  in  the  victory  and  pursuit ; 
Strange  are  ye,  yet  familiar,  as  ye  call 
My  soul  to  wake  from  earth's  sense  and  its  thrall. 


192  NIGHT   STUDY. 

I  know  ye  now — I  see 
With  more  than  natural  sight.     Ye  are  the  good, 

The  wise  departed.     Ye 

Are  come  from  Heaven  to  claim  your  brotherhood 
With  mortal  brother  writhing  in  the  strife 
And  chains,  which  once  were  yours  in  this  sad  life. 

Ye  hover  o'er  the  page 
Ye  traced  in  ancient  days  with  glorious  thought,     , 

Full  many  a  distant  age ; 
Ye  love  to  watch  the  inspiration  caught 
From  your  sublime  examples,  and  to  cheer 
The  fainting  student  to  your  high  career. 

Ye  come  to  nerve  the  soul 
(Like  him  who  near  the  Atoner  stood  when  He, 

Trembling,  saw  round  him  roll 
The  wrathful  portents  of  Gethsemane) 
With  courage  strong ;  the  promise  ye  have  known 
And  proved,  wrapt  for  me  from  the  Eternal  Throne. 

Still  keep,  O  keep  me  near  you, 
Compass  me  round  with  your  immortal  wings ; 

Still  let  my  glad  soul  hear  you, 
Striking  your  triumphs  from  your  golden  strings, 
Until  with  you  I  mount  and  join  the  song 
An  angel  like  you  'mid  the  white-robed  throng. 


DR.  BETHUNE'S  LAST  HYMN. 


Written  on  his  dying  bed. 
Published  for  the  first  time. 


When  time  seems  short,  and  death  is  near, 
And  I  am  pressed  by  doubt  and  fear, 
And  sins  like  an  overflowing  tide 
Assail  my  peace  on  every  side, 
This  thought  my  refuge  still  shall  be, 
I  know  the  Saviour  died  for  me. 

His  name  is  Jesus,  and  he  died 
For  guilty  sinners — crucified — 
Content  to  die  that  he  might  win 
Their,  ransom  from  the  death  of  sin. 
No  sinner  worse  than  I  can  be, 
Therefore  I  know  he  died  for  me. 

If  grace  were  bought,  I  could  not  pay, 
If  grace  were  earned,  no  worth  have  I, 
By  grace  alone  I  draw  my  breath, 

Held  up  from  everlasting  death. 
N 


194  DR.  BETHUNE'S  LAST  HYMN. 


Yet  since  I  know  his  grace  is  free, 
I  know  the  Saviour  died  for  me. 


I  read  God's  holy  word,  and  find 

Great  truths  which  elevate  my  mind, 

And  little  do  I  know  beside, 

Of  thoughts  so  high,  so  deep,  so  wide. 

This  is  my  best  Theology — 

I  know  the  Saviour  died  for  me. 


ANN1S  BOUDINOT  STOCKTON. 
Author  of  "The  Triumph  of  Mildness." 


Excerpt  from  a  Letter  addressed  to  her  by  Gen.  Washington  : 

KOCKY  HILL,  Sept.  2d,  1783. 

You  apply  to  me,  my  dear  madam,  for  absolution,  as  though  I 
were  your  father  confessor.  If  it  is  a  crime  to  write  elegant  poetry, 
and  if  you  will  come  and  dine  with  me  on  Thursday,  and  go  through 
the  proper  course  of  penitence,  I  will  strive  hard  to  acquit  you  of 
your  poetical  trespasses. 

Your  most  obedient  and  obliged  servant, 

GEO.  WASHINGTON. 
MRS.  STOCKTON. 


ODE  TO  WASHINGTON. 


With  all  thy  country's  blessings  on  thy  head, 

And  all  the  glory  that  encircles  man, 
Thy  deathless  fame  to  distant  nations  spread, 

And  realms  unblest  by  Freedom's  genial  plan  ; 
Addressed  by  statesmen,  legislators,  kings, 

Revered  by  thousands  as  you  pass  along, 
While  every  muse  with  ardor  spreads  her  wings, 

To  greet  our  hero  in  immortal  song: 
Say,  can  a  woman's  voice  an  audience  gain, 


196  ODE   TO   WASHINGTON. 

And  stop  a  moment  thy  triumphal  car  ? 
And  wilt  thou  listen  to  a  peaceful  strain, 

Unskilled  to  paint  the  horrid  wrack  of  war? 
For  what  is  glory?     What  are  martial  deeds, 

Unpurified  at  Virtue's  awful  shrine? 
Full  oft  remorse  a  glorious  day  succeeds — 

The  motive,  only,  stamps  the  deed  divine. 
But  thy  last  legacy,  renowned  chief, 

Hath  decked  thy  brow  with  honors  more  sublime — 
Twined  in  thy  wreath,  the  Christian's  firm  belief, 

And  nobly  owned  thy  faith  to  future  time. 


WILLIAM  BAKEK. 

(CLASS  OF  "  1846.") 

MY   ROCK. 


I  lay  upon  the  rocky  strand, 

The  Atlantic  breaking  at  my  feet, 

And  smiled,  and  laved  my  idle  hand 
Where  sea  and  rock  in  thunder  meet. 

With  cannon  peal,  through  misty  smoke, 
At  me  its  volleyed  waters  flew : 

Ye  harm  me,  O  ye  seas,  I  spoke, 

But  as  the  flowers  are  harmed  by  dew. 

It  heard,  and  from  its  deepest  bed 
It  summoned  all  the  boundless  main, 

And  roaring  came  ;  I  merely  said  : 
Go,  gather  for  th'  assault  again  ! 

My  little  life  it  fiercer  sought, 

With  hungry  howl  and  angry  leap ; 

Its  madness  was  to  music  wrought, 
Which  lulled  me  into  childlike  sleep. 


198  MY    ROCK. 

I  slept,  and  woke,  and  laughed  to  see 
Such  fearful  force  but  spent  in  foam, 

And  scoffed — Your  wrath  but  proves  to  me 
My  Rock  is  my  sufficient  home. 


WILLIAM  W.  LORD. 

.  (CLASS  OF  "  1843.") 

THEOLOGICAL      SEMINARY. 

(Author  of  two  volumes  of  Poems.) 

A  RIME. 

[From  Oriswold's  "American  Poets"] 

[Which  is  yet  Reason,  and  teacheth  in  a  light  manner  a  grave  mat- 
ter in  the  lore  of  love.] 


As  Love  sat  idling  beneath  a  tree, 
A  knight  rode  by  on  his  charger  free, 
Stalwart,  and  fair  and  tall  was  he 
With  his  plume  and  his  mantle,  a  sight  to  see 
And  proud  of  his  scars,  right  loftily 
He  cried,  Young  boy,  will  you  go  with  me  ? 
But  Love,  he  pouted  and  shook  his  head, 
And  along  fared  the  warrior  ill-bested; 
Love  is  not  won  by  chivalry. 

Then  came  a  minstrel  bright  of  blee, 
Blue  were  his  eyes  as  the  heavens  be, 


200          .  A   EIME. 

And  sweet  as  a  song-bird's  throat  sang  he 
Of  smiles  and  tears  and  ladies  e'e, 
Soft  love  and  glorious  chivalry. 
Then  cried,  Sweet  boy,  will  you  go  with  me  ? 
Love  wept  and  smiled  and  shook  his  head, 
And  along  fared  the  minstrel  ill-bested ; 
Love  is  not  won  by  minstrelsy. 


Then  came  a  bookman  wise  as  three, 
Darker  a  scholar  you  shall  not  see, 
In  Jewry,  Rome,  or  Araby. 
But  list,  fair  dames,  what  I  rede  to  ye, 
In  love's  sweet  lore  untaught  was  he. 
For  when  he  cried,  Come,  love,  with  me ! 
Tired  of  the  parle  he  was  nodding  his  head, 
And  along  fared  the  scholar  ill-bested ; 
Love  is  not  won  by  pedantry. 


Then  came  a  courtier  wearing  the  key 
Of  council  and  chambers  high  privity. 
He  could  dispute  yet  seem  to  agree, 
And  soft  as  dew  was  his  flatterie. 
And  with  honied  voice  and  low  congee, 
Fair  youth,  he  said,  will  you  honor  me  ? 


A -RIME.  201 

In  courteous  wise  Love  shook  his  head, 

And  along  fared  the  courtier  ill-bested; 

Love  is  not  won  by  courtesy. 

Then  came  a  miser  blinking  his  e'e, 
To  view  the  bright  boy  beneath  the  tree ; 
His  purse,  which  hung  to  his  cringing  knee, 
The  ransom  held  of  a  king's  countree, 
And  a  handful  of  jewels  and  gold  showed  he, 
And  cried,  Sweet  boy,  will  you  go  with  me? 
Then  loud  laughed  Love  as  he  shook  his  head, 
And  along  fared  the  monger  ill-bested ; 
Love  is  not  won  by  merchandry. 

O  then  to  young  Love  beneath  the  tree, 
Came  one  as  young  and  as  fair  as  he, 
And  as  like  to  him  as  like  could  be, 
And  clapping  her  little  wings  for  glee, 
With  nods  and  smiles  and  kisses  free, 
She  whispered,  Come,  O  come  with  me. 
Love  pouted  and  flouted  and  shook  his  head, 
But  along  with  that  winsome  youth  he  sped, 
And  love  wins  love,  loud  shouted  she. 


SALLY  CAMPBELL  PEESTON  MILLEE. 

THE  PRINCESS  LOUISE:  THE  MAIDEN  ALL 
FOR-LORNE! 


A  blushing  rose  of  England's  crown, 
Mingling  with  Scotia's  thistle-down, 
Shall  tie  of  race  and  throne  restore, 
Through  the  great  chief  MacCallum  More ; 
And  noble  blood  of  Briton  born, 
Shall  wed  the  maiden  all  for-lorne. 


God  shower  his  blessings  on  the  pair, 
The  Highland  lad,  the  Lowland  fair ; 
And  grant  the  maiden  all  for-lorne, 
May'nt  marry  a  man  all  tattered  and  torn  ; 
But  Love  with  his  own  magic  art 
Blend  princely  natures  heart  to  heart, 
Forging  meantime  'neath  rosy  smiles, 
A  chain  to  bind  the  British  Isles. 


GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 

(CLASS  OF  "1842.") 

Author   of   "  Plays   and    Poems,"    "  The   Legend   of   the   Hounds," 
"Poems,"  &c. 


THE  BLACK  REGIMENT. 


Dark  as  the  clouds  of  even 
Ranked  in  the  western  heaven, 
Waiting  the  breath  that  lifts 
All  the  dread  mass,  and  drifts 
Tempest  and  falling  brand 
Over  a  ruined  land  : — 
So  still  and  orderly, 
Arm  to  arm,  knee  to  knee, 
Waiting  the  great  event, 
Stands  the  Black  Regiment. 

Down  the  long,  dusky  line 
Teeth  gleam  and  eye-balls  shine 
And  the  bright  bayonet, 
Bristling,  and  firmly  set, 


204  THE    BLACK    REGIMENT. 

Flashed  with  a  purpose  grand 
Long  e're  the  sharp  command 
Told  them  their  time  had  come, 
Told  them  what  work  was  sent 
For  the  Black  Regiment. 

"  Now  "  the  flag-sergeant  cried  ! 
"  Though  death  and  hell  betide, 
Let  the  whole  nation  see 
If  we  are  fit  to  be 
Free  in  this  land :  or  bound 
Down,  like  the  whining  hound 
Bound  with  red  stripes  of  pain 
In  our  old  chains  again  !  " 
O  !  what  a  shout  there  went 
From  the  Black  Regiment ! 


"  Charge !  "  Trump  and  drum  awoke 
Onward  the  bondmen  broke  : 
Bayonet  and  sabre-stroke 
Vainly  opposed  their  rush 
Through  the  wild  battle  crush, 
With  but  one  thought  aflush 
Driving  their  lords  like  chaff, 
In  the  gun's  mouth  they  laugh, 


THE   BLACK   REGIMENT.  205 

Or  at  the  slippery  brands 
Leaping  with  slippery  hands ; 
Down  they  tear  man  and  horse, 
Down  in  their  awful  course, 
Trampling  with  bloody  heel 
Over  the  crashing  steel, 
All  their  eyes  forward  bent, 
Rushed  the  black  Regiment. 

"  Freedom  !"  their  battle-cry, 
"  Freedom  !  or  leave  to  die." 
Ah !  and  they  meant  the  word, 
Not  as  with  us  'tis  heard, 
Not  a  mere  party  shout, 
They  gave  their  spirits  out, 
Trusted  the  end  to  God, 
And  on  the  gory  sod 
Rolled  in  triumphant  blood ; 
Glad  to  strike  one  free  blow, 
Whether  for  weal  or  woe ; 
Glad  to  breathe  one  free  breath, 
Though  on  the  lips  of  death ; 
Praying,  alas,  in  vain, 
That  they  might  fall  again, 
So  they  could  once  more  see 
That  burst  to  Liberty — 


206  THE    BLACK    REGIMENT. 

This  was  what  -Freedom  meant 
To  the  Black  Regiment. 

Hundreds  on  hundreds  fell, 
But  they  are  resting  well ; 
Scourges  and  shackles  strong 
Never  shall  do  them  wrong. 
O  to  the  living  few — 
Soldier,  be  just,  be  true! 
Hail  them  as  comrades  tried  ; 
Fight  with  them  side  by  side ; 
Never,  in  field  or  tent, 
Scorn  the  Black  Regiment. 


DIRGE  FOE  A  SOLDIER. 


To  Gen.  Phil.  Kearney.     Killed  Sept,  1st,  1862. 


Close  his  eyes,  his  work  is  done ! 

What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ; 
What  cares  he?     He  cannot  know — 
Lay  him  low. 


As  man  may.  he  fought  his  fight, 
Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor; 

Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep,  forever  and  forever. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 

In  the  clover  or  the  snow ; 

What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know — 
Lay  him  low. 


208  DIRGE   FOB   A  SOLDIER. 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 
Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley, 

What  to  him  are  all  earth's  wars, 
What — but  death-bemocking  folly  ? 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 

In  the  clover  or  the  snow ; 

What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know — 
Lay  him  low. 

Leave  him  to  God's  watchful  eye ; 

Trust  him  to  the  Hand  that  made  him ; 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by ; 

God  alone  hath  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ; 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know — 
Lay  him  low. 


CAKKIE  LOUISE  HAGEMAN. 
BEAUTIFUL  SUNLIGHT. 


Beautiful  sunlight!     Shadow  of  God, 
Gleam  from  the  sky  where  the  glorified  trod, 
Still  shining  as  once  over  Eden  it  shone, 
Glory  swept  down  from  the  great  golden  throne. 

Beautiful  sunlight !     How  dreary  the  day 
Without  thy  bright  spangles,  like  children  at  play, 
Filling  the  sorrowful  households  of  earth 
With  flame-winged  angels  of  heavenly  birth. 

Beautiful  sunlight !     How  deftly  thy  hand 
Like  an  artist  is  painting  the  sky  and  the  land ; 
Now  crimsoning  the  swift  cloud  with  roseate  hue, 
Now  chasing  the  rainbow  in  orange  and  blue. 

Now  opening  the  lily,  now  touching  the  star, 
Now  brightening  the  dream  of  the  distance  afar, 
Now  washing  the  windows  of  night  with  its  wave, 
Now  decking  with  beauty  the  gloom  of  the  grave. 

o 


210  BEAUTIFUL   SUNLIGHT. 

Thou  walkest  like  God  through  the  dust  and  the  rain, 
But  thy  silver-tipped  sandals  catch  never  a  stain, 
And  though  tempest  and  shadow  wear  over  thy  face, 
It  shows  not  a  wrinkle,  it  bears  not  a  trace. 

O  Light !  what  is  light  to  the  eyes  of  the  blind 

But  a  darkness  whose  pathway  no  traveller  can  find? 

And  what  is  the  light  of  thy  spirit  to  thee, 

If  that  light  be  but  darkness,  how  dark  it  must  be ! 

O  Father  of  lights,  open  thou  these  sealed  eyes ! 
As  windows  in  summer  to  stars  in  the  skies ; 
To  the  beautiful  prophecies  shining  on  high, 
"Show  us  the  Father"  and  then  we  will  die. 


TO  A  LOST  CANARY. 


Whither  are  thou  fled,  my  birdie, 

Whither  wings  thy  way  ? 
By  the  forest  or  the  river, 

O'er  the  ocean's  spray  ? 
Whither  art  thou  fled,  my  birdie, 

Little  birdie,  say  ? 

Can  it  be,  my  pet  canary, 

Of  the  plumaged  breast, 
Flitting  like  a  yellow  sunbeam 

From  the  saffron  west, 
Pines  among  dull-feathered  woodsters 

In  a  common  nest  ? 

O'er  thy  head  perchance  there  hovers 

Hawk  of  angry  sky  ; 
On  thee  now,  mayhap,  the  fowler 

Fasteneth  his  eye  ; 
Wherefore  didst  thou  leave  thy  mistress, 

Wherefore  didst  thou  fly? 


212  TO   A    LOST   CANARY. 

Ah  !  thou'rt  not  the  only  nestling 
That  hath  flown  from  me, 

Other  friends  as  fair  and  lovely 
Left  me  lone  like  thee ; 

And  I  know  not,  O  I  know  not 
Wlieresoe'er  they  be. 

But  I  know  in  yon  bright  Heaven, 

Far  beyond  the  west, 
Lie  .the  mild  Canary  Islands, 

Islands  of  the  Blest ; 
And  some  day  I  too  si i all  fly 

Away — and  be  at  rest. 


GEOEGE  L.  RAYMOND. 

(CLASS  OF  "         ".) 

Author  of  "  Colony  Ballads,"  "Hadyn," 
"  Life  Below,"  &c. 


NOTES  FROM  THE  VICTORY. 


Ah  me!  who  is  ringing  those  bells? 

Right  merry  for  funeral  knells ! 
If  wild  winds  fell,  ring  them  thro'  hell, 

What  woe  can  the  demons  lack  ? 
My  light  blew  out,  in  the  gust  of  the  rout: 

My  boy  will  never  come  back. 

Drums  too, — who  bade  the  drums  roll? 

Coarse  drums,  call  ye  the  soul  ? 
Folks  out  of  breath,  shout  ye  at  death  ? 

Rend  ye  the  tomb  ? — Alack. 
Vain  echoe's  around,  still,  under  the  ground, 

My  boy  can  never  come  back. 

And  guns !  What  makes  the  guns  roar? 
Alas,  I  thought  it  was  o'er ! 


214  NOTES    FKOM   THE   VICTORY. 

Though  why  fear  I.  though  millions  die, 
Though  all  of  us  wear  but  black  ? 

I,  too,  with   the  proud  have  my  blood-stained 

shroud  ; 
My  boy  will  never  come  back. 

Our  land  ! — who  wants  its  long  years  ? 

They  are  dimm'd  by  these  drainless  tears : 
All  gloom  is  the  way  of  this  masked  grief-gay, 

Who  groans  in  their  lonely  track  ; 
Chill,  shivering  breast,  freeze,  freeze  into  rest; 

My  boy  can  never  come  back. 


THE  DESTINY-MAKER. 


She  paused,  and  I  who  questioned  there, 
Heard  that  she  was  as  good  as  fair  : 
And  in  my  soul  a  still,  small  voice 
Did  chide  because  t  checked  my  choice ; 
But  I  who  had  resolved  to  be 
The  maker  of  my  destiny, 
I  bade  the  gentle  guardian  down, 
And  tried  to  think  about  renown. 


She  passed ;  and  I  who  lingered  there, 

Saw  that  her  face  was  very  fair ; 

And  with  my  sighs  that  pride  suppressed 

Fluttered  a  weary  wish  for  rest ; 

But  I  who  had  resolved  to  be 

The  maker  of  my  destiny, 

I  turned  me  to  my  task  and  wrought, 

And  so  forgot  the  passing  thought. 


She  left : — and  I  who  wander,  fear 
There's  nothing  more  to  see  or  hear : 


216  THE    DESTINY-MAKEK. 

Those  walls  that  ward  my  Paradise 
Are  very  high,  now  open  twice ; 
And  I,  who  had  resolved  to  be 
The  maker  of  my  destiny, 
Can  only  wait  without  the  gate 
And  sit  and  sigh.     Too  late !  too  late  ! 


THE  EAPIDS  AT  NIAGARA. 

[Allaire.'] 


Swift  water-serpents  ;  with  dread  fascination, 
Upon  me  unnumbered  ye  darting]  y  glide  ; 

As  strong  as  the  power  of  some  awful  temptation, 
That  lures  me  to  merge  in  its  tragical  tide. 

When  I  grew  tired  of  the  Cataract's  thunder, 

Sank  down  to  sleep  'neath  the  muffled-crowned  mist, 

Why  was  it,  then,  that  ye  rapt  me  with  wonder, 
On  your  weird  spell  that  I  could  not  resist  ? 

Ah  !  in  those  torrents  my  life  flows  before  me, 
Far  from  its  home  in  the  quiet  of  years ; 

Wrecks  of  my  childhood  drift  brokenly  o'er  me, 
Dashed  with  strange  visions  of  laughter  and  tears. 

Once,  far  away  where  your  swift  waters  started, 

Calm  was  their  song  as  their  own  mountain  spring; 

Alas !  how  they  lie  on  these  rocks  broken-hearted, 
And  the  song  of  my  life  is  the  song  that  they  sing. 


218  THE    RAPIDS   AT   NIAGARA. 

Never  before  from  the  days  of  my  childhood, 
"With  such  wild  adventure  on  earth  did  I  meet, 

'Till  your  white  tigers  sprang  at  me  out  of  the  wild  wood, 
And  fell  back  exhausted  in  foam  at  my  feet. 

Never,  O  never,  until  I  had  seen  thee 

Splintering  the  light  on  thy  rock-shivered  surge  : 

Had  I  thought  how  like  thee  with  nothing  between  me? 
Sports  my  soul  with  its  sin  on  Eternity's  verge. 

Never,  O  never,  until  I  had  harkened 

By  night,  where  thy  ice-crashing  cataract  fell, 

Had  I  felt  that  I  heard  from  the  world  of  the  darkened, 
The  hoarse  shout  of  demons  flung  back  out  of  hell. 

Still  on  me  now  thy  smooth  waters  are  flowing, 
Still  on  me  now  I  can  feel  thy  cold  tide, 

Time, — O  my  God!  how  the  minutes  are  going, 
Beautiful  serpents,  how  subtly  ye  glide. 

Rapids — your  restlessness  ever  shall  haunt  rne, 
Till  the  dark,  deadly  current  of  life  shall  be  run, 

And  the  calm  realm  of  Rest  of  heaven  shall  enchant  me, 
Where  the  eagle-swan  swims  on  the  unsetting  sun. 


ALFEED  D.  WOODHULL. 

THE  NATIONAL  THANKSGIVING  HYMN, 

[From  the  Hymn  Book.~\ 


God  of  the  passing  year,  to  thee 
Our  hymn  of  gratitude  we  raise ; 

With  swelling  heart  and  bended  knee, 
We  offer  thee  our  song  of  praise. 

We  bless  thy  name,  Almighty  God, 
For  all  the  kindness  thou  hast  shown 

To  this  fair  land  our  fathers  trod, 
This  land  we  fondly  call  our  own. 

Here  Freedom  spreads  her  banner  wide, 
And  casts  her  soft  and  hallowed  ray ; 

For  thou  our  country's  arms  didst  guide, 
And  lead  them  on  their  conquering  way. 

We  praise  thee,  that  the  Gospel  light 

Through  all  our  land  its  radiance  sheds — 

Scatters  the  shades  of  error's  might, 

And  heavenly  blessings  round  us  spreads. 


220          THE   NATIONAL,   THANKSGIVING   HYMN. 

When  foes  without  and  foes  within, 

With  threatening  ills  our  land  have  pressed, 

Thou  hast  our  nation's  bulwark  been, 
And  smiling  sent  us  peaceful  rest. 


FANNIE  WOLCOTT  KANKIN. 

THE  BERG  AND  THE  BARK. 


The  Ice  King  set  sail  from  the  Berserk's  lone  land ; 

His  ship  was  an  iceberg,  unloosed  from  the  strand; 

In  the  storm  and  the  darkness,  its  cold  shrouds  were 

spread 
On  its  towering  masthead,  so  spectral  and  dread. 

Like  a  chain'd  fiend  unbound,  from  the  far  land  of  Thor, 
RushM  the  Wind  from  his  caves,  on  that  shadowy  shore ; 
And,  shrieking  in  fury,  swept  on  in  his  might, 
Attended  by  one — the  Black  Demon  of  Night. 

With  the  roar  of  the  whirlwind,  the  speed  of  the  flame, 
Remorseless,  resistless,  right  onward  they  came; 
Then,  leaping  the  ice-crusted  ship,  cold  and  hoar, 
Their  shriek,  wild  as  Nornor's,  rang  back  o'er  the  shore. 

As  the  Wind's  frenzied  voices  swelPd  out  on  the  sky, 
They  parted  the  clouds  on  its  track  rolling  by ; 
And  soft  shone  the  moon,  with  a  silvery  beam, 
Like  a  smile  on  the  face  of  a  child  in  a  dream. 


222          THE  BERG  AND  THE  BARK. 

There,  there  stood  the  Ice  King,  bright,  baleful  and  cold, 
And  grim  as  the  Jarls  and  the  Vikings  of  old ; 
And  hailstones,  like  diamonds,  bejeweled  his  crown, 
Majestic  as  Odin,  of  Norseland  renown. 

He  spoke  not,  he  turned  not,  but,  pulseless  and  pale, 
He  reck'd  not  the  billow,  nor  voice  of  the  gale ; 
On  the  treacherous  track,  his  ship  knew  but  too  well, 
Like  Loki,  he  rush'd  on  his  errand  of  hell. 

Not  a  league  from  the  weird  ship,  a  staunch  little  bark 
Darted  on  in  her  course,  without  warning  or  mark  ; 
She  noted  the  iceberg's  pale,  glittering  face, 
And  her  doom,  should  she  touch  but  its  terrible  base. 

On  her  deckrin  the  dread  hush  of  speechless  despair, 
Stood  brave  men,  and  children,  and  womanhood  fair; 
A  shuddering  horror  sealed  fast  every  lip, 
As  nearer  they  came  to  the  merciless  ship. 

Unmoved,  midst  the  storm,  stood  the  helmsman  so  brave, 
Little  reck'd  at  the  wind  or  the  tempest-toss'd  wave ; 
Beside  him  was  Astrid,  his  fair,  winsome  child, 
Looking  out  on  the  Ocean,  all  boisterous  and  wild. 


THE  BERG  AND  THE  BARK.         223 

"What  is  that,  oh,  Father!  What  is  that?"  she  cried, 
"That  moves  like  a  ghost  far  out  on  the  tide? 
See,  Father,  it's  coming, — it  almost  is  here, — 
It  looks  like  a  bright  frozen  cloud  rolling  near  ! " 

The  maiden  listened ; — mysterious  and  slow 
Came  borne  on  the  whirlwind  a  voice  soft  and  low ; 
In  her  dark,  prayerful  eyes  lay  no  boding  of  ill, 
For  she  heard  above  all  that  voice  "small  and  still." 

The  favoring  wind,  now  shifting  its  course, 
'Gainst  the  glittering  berg  beat  with  pitiless  force; 
It  work'd  and  it  writh'd  in  its  terrible  might, 
As  the  blast  swept  in  fury  its  pinnacled  height. 

O'er  the  deck  of  the  bark  the  storm-crested  wave 
Dash'd  relentless.     Still  daring,  the  helmsman  so  brave, 
By  the  soft,  loving  light  of  the  radiant  moon 
Turn'd  her  course  from  the  Ice  King's  cold  ship  of 
doom. 

And  now,  as  the  bark  o'er  the  wild  waters  sped. 
From  her  fate  by  the  God  of  the  storms  safely  led, 
There  came  from  the  iceberg  a  deafening  roar, 
That  struck  horror  to  hearts  horror-stricken  before. 


224         THE  BERG  AND  THE  BARK. 

The  Ice  King  had  vanished ; — swift,  sudden,  the  shock 
That  dash'd  the  doom'd  berg  'gainst  the  granite-ribb'd 

rock, 

Uprearing  its  crest  'neath  the  billow ;  the  bright 
Ship  struck,  and  from  base  to  its  towering  height, 

Shivering  and  reeling,  with  one  mighty  crash, 
As  instant  as  thought  or  the  lightning's  dread  flash, 
It  quiver'd  and  broke  o'er  the  black,  angry  wave, 
Then  silently  sank  to  its  fathomless  grave. 


T.  E.  GKEEN. 

(CLASS  OF  "1880.") 
THEOLOGICAL    SEMINARY. 

VIOLETS. 


There's  a  story  told 

In  a  legend  old, 
Of  a  maiden  of  heavenly  birth  ; 

But  a  silver  dart 

Had  pierced  her  heart, 
And  she  loved  a  youth  of  earth. 

So  she  stole  away, 

In  the  dawn  of  day, 
From  her  place  by  the  throne  of  Jove; 

And  through  summer  hours, 

From  the  blooming  flowers, 
She  blushed  her  heart's  fond  love. 


But  the  spying  eye 
Of  the  sun  on  high, 
p 


226  VIOLETS. 

Saw  the  maiden  in  her  disguise; 
And  when  evening  late 
Had  swung  the  gate, 

And  lighted  the  lantered  skies; 

*He  told  her  love 
To  the  gods  above, 

And  their  anger  grew  fierce  and  dread ; 
And  their  sentence  dire, 
Like  the  Thunderer's  fire, 

Fell  full  on  her  drooping  head. 

They  bound  her  then 

With  a  golden  chain, 
And  from  heaven's  arches  high, 

Like  a  wandering  star 

In  the  azure  far, 
She  fell  through  the  evening  sky. 

On  earth  she  fell, 

In  a  grassy  dell 
Where  the  whispering  flowers  grew  ; 

And  the  morning  bright 

Kissed  her  tears  to  light, 
'Till  they  blossomed  in  violets  blue. 


THOMAS  G.  LYTLE. 
HOPE  ON. 


Hope  on !  though  every  dream  of  life  should  perish, 

And  youth's  gay  flush  like  summer  flowers  consume ; 
Though  all  the  dearest  ties  you  love  to  cherish 

Elude  your  grasp  like  shadows  from  the  tomb. 
Though  friends  betray,  and  fickle  fortune  slight  you, 

Though  every  prop  you  lean  upon  is  gone, 
Though  night  shuts  in  without  one  star  to  light  you, 

And  tempests  howl  around  you,  still,  hope  on. 

Though  like  a  pilot  on  the  rocks  of  danger 

Thy  lone  soul  looks  out  from  her  idle  helm ; 
Yet  seems,  O  God,  to  drift  in  as  a  stranger 

Before  the  balmy  lights  in  that  fair  realm ; 
Hope  on !  the  howling  blast  will  sink  beneath  you, 

And  nature's  storm-king  leave  the  sea  more  calm. 
The  starless  night  though  long,  at  last  shall  wreathe  you 

With  the  full  glory  of  the  sunlight's  palm. 

What  though  I  feel  my  hold  on  this  earth  weaken, 
What  though  death  drop  his  mantle  down  apace, 


228  HOPE   ON. 

My  soul  shall  know  Thee  as  a  ship  its  beacon, 

And  sun  itself  at  last  upon  his  face. 
Hope  on,  dear  heart,  hope  on  and  on  forever, 

Though  all  thou  hope  for  on  this  earth  be  gone ; 
For  I  am  sure  that  God  will  never,  never, 

Crush  the  brave  heart  that  still  in  Him  hopes  on  ; 
That  still  in  Him,  defiant,  grand,  hopes  on. 


PATRIOTISM. 


Point  them  to  the  summits,  where  the  patriots  bled, 
To  every  village  where  lie  their  glorious  dead ; 
Point  where  their  bosoms  met  the  dreadful  shock, 
Their  only  corselet  the  rude  rustic's  frock  : 
Point  where  they  mustered  to  the  gathering  horn, 
Where  titled  chieftains  curled  their  lips  in  scorn  ; 
Point  where  their  leader  bade  the  lines  advance, 
No  musket  wavering  in  the  lion's  glance ; 
Point  where  they  fainted  in  the  forced  retreat, 
And  tracked  the  snow-drifts  with  their  bleeding  feet; 
Point  where  their  banners  tossing  in  the  blast, 
Bore  ever  ready  faithful  to  the  last 
Through  storm  and  battle,  till  they  waved  again. 
O'er  Yorktown's  hills,  and  Saratoga's  plain. 


RICHARD  ARNOLD  GREENE. 

(CLASS  OF  "1878.") 

PRIDE  AND  HUMILITY. 


Treading  'neath  those  oaks  tremendous, 
I  was  bound  by  Wonder's  spell : 

Dark  they  rose  in  height  stupendous, 
Murmuring  loud  with  ceaseless  swell 

"  Wind  or  blast  can  never  rend  us." 


While  I  watched  them,  all  alluring, 
Scorners  of  the  scathing  storm, 

Still  again  they  spoke,  assuring 
That  in  grand  and  massive  form 

They  would  ever  stand  enduring. 


Now,  in  hidden  beauty  lying, 
Each  one  drooping  low  its  head, 

'Neath  those  ancient  oaks  undying, 
From  their  mossy,  humble  bed, 

I  could  hear  the  violets  sighing : 


PRIDE   AND   HUMILITY.  231 

"  Ye  who  with  unquenched  ambition 
Watch  us  from  your  lofty  height, 

Spurn  our  dark,  unfamed  position 
Oaks  majestic,  in  your  sight 

Ever  low  is  our  condition." 

Time  unhindered,  swiftly  gliding 

With  his  mighty  hand  works  change ; 

E'en  those  oaks,  so  strong  abiding, 
Lay  in  his  extended  range, 

In  their  ageless  power  confiding. 

Lo  !  He's  torn  them  far  asunder, 
While  his  aid,  the  exultant  Wind, 

Claims  them  for  his  own  rich  plunder. 
Still,  in  lowly  grace  I  find 

Living  violets,  and  I  wonder — 

If  this  may  not  be  a  warning, 

Telling  us  how  vain  is  Pride ; 
That  Humility  adorning, 

Borne  along  Time's  raging  tide, 
Shall  outlast  the  blasts  of  scorning, 

And  with  olden  charm  abide 
Till  the  fair  eternal  morning. 


E.  F.  DUNN. 
NO,  NO,  IT  IS  NOT  DYING. 


No,  no,  it  is  not  dying, 

To  go  unto  our  God — 
This  gloomy  earth  forsaking, 
Our  journey  homeward  taking, 
Along  the  starry  road. 


No,  no,  it  is  not  dying, 

Heaven's  citizen  to  be — 
A  wreath  immortal  wearing, 
And  rest  unbroken  sharing, 
From  care  and  conflict  free. 


No,  no,  it  is  not  dying, 

To  wear  a  lordly  crown — 
Among  God's  people  dwelling, 
The  glorious  triumph  swelling, 
Of  Him  whose  sway  we  own. 


E.  SPENCEK  MILLEK. 

(CLASS  OF  "  1836.") 
[Author  of  "  Caprices."] 

IGDRASIL. 


For  the  Present  holds  in  it  the  whole  Past  and  the  whole  Future, 
as  the  Life  tree  —  Igdrasil  —  wide-waving,  many-toned,  has  its 
roots  down  deep  in  the  Death  kingdoms,  among  the  oldest  dead 
dust  of  men,  and  with  its  boughs  reaches  always  beyond  the  stars, 
and  in  all  times  and  places  is  one  and  the  same  life  tree. — CARLYLE. 


Igdrasil — weird  and  sombre  tree, — 
My  spirit's  awe  goes  up  to  thee, 
And  shadows  chill  my  revery. 


I  lie  beneath  thee,  in  a  night 

Of  phantom-shapes  and  fitful  light, 

And  fancy  shudders  in  her  flight. 


The  voices  of  the  countless  dead, 

The  echoes  of  the  ages  fled, 

All  times  are  murmuring  in  thy  shade. 


234  IGDRASIL. 

And,  deeper  as  the  darkness  lowers, 
I  feel  the  presence  of  the  hours, — 
The  silent  fates  of  human  powers. 

Remorseless  hours,  that  on  thy  bough 
Are  brooding  in  an  endless  now, 
Upon  the  steadfast  change  below ; 

While  o'er  me  the  breath  of  doom, 
In  fitful  gusts  from  out  the  gloom, 
Is  blowing  into  years  to  come — 

Igdrasil — weird  and  sombre  tree — 
My  spirit  kneeleth  unto  thee, 
And  wrestles  with  thy  mystery. 

The  green  above  me  flourisheth ; 
Thy  roots  are  in  the  grave  beneath ; 
I  know  that  life  is  fed  by  death ; 

I  know  that  what  is  quick  to-day, 
Is  born  of  being  past  away — 
A  new  conception  of  decay. 


IGDRASIL.  235 

The  ceaseless  generations  tell 

That  life  and  death  are  seething  well 

In  Time,  the  chemist's  aludel. 

For  even  as  I  muse  around, 

A  leaf  is  falling  to  the  ground, 

But  lo !  the  night  gives  up  no  sound. 

But  still  its  fellows  whisper  there, 
And  shiver  in  the  pregnant  air, 
And  legion  are  the  shapes  they  wear. 

And  legion  are  the  tones  that  rise 
In  mimicry  of  strifes  and  sighs, 
The  burdens  of  all  histories. 

Igdrasil, — weird  and  sombre  tree, — 
My  spirit  goeth  forth  to  thee, 
And  yearneth  to  her  destiny. 

And  as  the  twilight  of  the  Past 
Comes  up  thro7  that  perspective  east, 
I  see  a  trembling  shadow  cast. 


236  IGDEASIL. 

A  shadow  without  line  or  mark, 
And  restless  as  the  wrecking  bark — 
A  shadow  trembling  on  the  dark. 

A  shadow  on  whose  surface  swim, 
In  phantom  pictures  vague  and  dim, 
The  fragments  of  all  life  and  time. 

And  yet  the  shadow  of  a  tree, 

Whose  trunk  and  branches  sway  with  thee, 

But  lengthen  to  infinity. 

A  tree  where  slow  mine  eye  receives 
A  vision  of  thy  boughs  and  leaves 
That  shiver  as  the  shadow  heaves. 

The  spell  is  o'er ;  the  doubtful  light 
Has  faded  from  my  aching  sight, 
Yet  still  thy  voice  is  on  the  night. 

Igdrasil — weird  and  sombre  tree — 
The  Past  and  Present  merge  in  thee ; 
The  Present  is  alone  with  me, 


THE  DYING  SKEPTIC. 


Peace,  coward  heart ; 

Stand  fast  and  fear  not  as  the  hollow  night 
Deepens  about  thee,  and  the  muffled  step 
Of  the  invisible,  chill  messenger 
Draws  near  and  nearer  on  the  echoless  hours. 
Thou,  who  hast  questioned  dim  astrologies, 
Why  start  and  shudder  at  a  new  conjunction 
In  the  uncertain,  shifting  horoscope  ? 
Thou,  who  alone  in  truant  haunts  of  thought 
Has  loved  the  thinnest  outside  air  of  truth, 
Where  reason  grapples  languidly  with  doubt, 
The  actual  wrestles  with  the  Infinite ; — 
Why  clutch  and  grasp  for  some  material  hold, 
When  the  whole  girding  atmosphere  of  life 
Sinks  from  about  thee,  and  thou  art  in  space  ? 
Thou  who  hast  left  thy  one  own  beautiful  sun, 
The  fireside  of  a  planetary  household, 
And,  in  the  dream  of  fancy's  marvellous  sleep 
Worshipped  the  innumerable  hosts  of  heaven, 
That,  in  the  orderings  of  Divinity, 
Appear  but  in  the  night,  and  then  far  off. 


238  THE   DYING   SKEPTIC. 

And  but  to  him  that  waking,  against  Nature 
From  out  the  broken  rest  of  care  or  crime, 
Seeth  above  him,  in  that  solemn  hour, 
Signs  supernatural,  paths  of  meteors  : 
Why  dost  thou  falter  when  thou  may'st  be  free, 
And  roam  God's  boundless  government  a  child, 
Not  of  the  earth,  but  of  the  universe  ? 
Thou  who  hast  struggled  with  thy  destiny, 
And,  in  the  fever  of  thine  inner  vision, 
Hast  curst  this  passive  chrysalis  of  thine, 
Why  stand  all  palsied  when  the  unseen  hand 
Opens  Time's  outward  gate,  and  leaves  thee  nude 
In  the  full  presence  of  Eternity  ? 


MALCOLM  MACDONALD. 

(CLASS  OF  "  1861.") 

EXCERPTS  FROM  "  GUATEMOZIN." 


Ah  !  I  will  strike 

With  mailed  hand  on  Fame,  till  every  bolt 
And  hinge  shall  shake  within  their  portal-seat; 
As  he  who  laid  his  sword  within  the  warp 
Of  Destiny,  and  held  it  woven  there  ; 
Eternal  as  Orion's  starry  blade, 
Which  out  no  arm  may  draw,  or  it  will  cut 
A  gap  in  Nature,  high  heaven's  law  be  broke, 
And  chaos  rule  the  darkened  void  again. 


Am  I  a  brute,  to  crop  the  herbage  of  content  in 
times  like  these  ? 


I'll  practice  on  his  vents  of  whims  and  humours. 
Till,  like  a  windy  flute,  he  pipes  my  way. 


240  EXCERPTS   FROM   "  GUATEMOZIN." 

Kiss  her  on  the  lips ;  sweet  Acalan  is  mine, 
For  I  shall  send  so  fair  a  shaft,  thy  body 
Will  open  lips,  and  kiss  thy  life  away. 


That  strange,  uncounted  sense — instinctive  fear- 
Sniffed,  like  a  deer  that  scents  the  tainted  air, 
The  coming  evil. 

Strike  at  their  faces — there  all  the  senses  come 
To  learn  of  you,  and  let  the  lesson  be 
Blind  eyes,  deaf  ears,  dumb  mouths — 
Death— Death. 


I  felt  a  sudden  quickening  of  air,  as  if  a  god  had 
turned  and  looked  on  me. 


Ah  !  what  are  we  ?     We  crumble  in  the  hand, 

As  butterflies  leave  on  our  fingers  dust, 

Go  lame,  and  die,  killed  by  the  slightest  touch. 


I  saw  our  forces  last,  a  narrow  ribbon,  that  flut- 
tered in  a  wind  of  men. 


EXCERPTS    FROM    "  GUATEMOZIN."  241 

He  is  of  perfect  force — a  fortress  of  expedients ; 
I  marvel  at  him — no  misfortune  daunts, 
But  strengthens  more  to  counterplot  with  fate. 

Delay  confesses  weakness,  'tis  the  pause 

For  breath  that  comes  between  the  lifted  sword 

Of  weary  fighter,  and  his  trembling  stroke, 

What  time  the  warrior  takes  to  run  him  through. 

O  Love,  thou  juggler  of  the  heart! 

First  I  will  ply  my  arguments  to  blow 
Red  hot  his  temper,  then  I'll  call  my  hammers,  and 
we  will  forge  him  to  our  purpose  tight. 


What?  Hath  my  reason  gone,  my  ears  turned  liars, 
my  eyes  deceived,  and  my  memory  broken, 
that  its  fragments  patch  so  wrongly? 


Such  victories  surely  defeat  themselves. 

This  open  garden — this  all-seeing  sun — are  gossips. 
Q 


HENKY  CLOW. 
Author  of  a  volume  of  unpublished  poems. 

OSSIAK 


Oh  !  for  a  spark  of  Ossian's  native  fire, 
To  wake  my  song,  and  touch  my  silent  lyre  ! 
On  wildest  wing  my  muse  would  speed  her  way 
To  "Selma's  Hall,"  where  midnight  visions  play! 
Where  Fancy  pictures,  midst  the  stately  trees, 
The  ghost  of  Ossian,  beckoning  on  the  breeze. 


LINES  ON  LEAVING  HOME. 


Farewell,  farewell !  my  native  shore  ! 

Dear,  happy  scenes,  a  long  adieu  ! 
O  fond  remembrance !  yet  once  more 

Methinks  I  take  the  parting  view  ! 

As  some  sweet  flower  in  fragrance  borne, 
Beyond  the  sea  when  it  is  dead  ; 

E'en  so  at  midnight  and  at  morn, 
Still  shine  visions  that  are  fled. 


Oft  have  I  strayed  near  Allen's  stream, 
When  light  of  evening  on  it  lay! 

How  pleasant  soon  'twill  be  to  dream 
Of  scenes  like  thine,  tho'  far  away  : 

The  rustic  cot ;  the  village  green  ; 

The  winding  stream  that  smooths  along 
The  hawthorn  shade,  where  lovers  stray 

To  shun  the  watchful  noontide  throng ! 


244  LINES   ON   LEAVING    HOME. 

Come,  fancy,  with  thy  airy  wing! 

0  !  come  with  all  thy  cloudy  train ! 
7Tis  Nature  calls  !     Haste,  phantom,  bring 

These  balmy  scenes  to  me  again. 

She  comes !  •    Methink  I  mark  the  rill 
Where  lilies  kiss  the  crystal  stream  ! 
She  comes  ! — submissive  to  her  will 

1  haste  to  drink  the  passing  dream. 


ELBERT  S.  PORTER. 
THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY. 

A  THRENODY. 


A  Smile  !     A  Tear ! 
A  Hope  !     A  Fear  ! 
Like  ripples  on  the  stream, 
Like  moonlight's  fading  beam, 
They  come— they  pass. 
Ah  me,  alas  ! 
This  life  is  vapor — 
A  flickering  taper  ! 

In  flowing  sympathies,  in  surging  sorrows, 
In  hopeful  ecstacies,  in  glad  to-morrows, 
Its  rapid  current  runs  its  mystic  race, 
And  man  at  last  awakes  in  Death's  embrace. 


A  Truth  !     A  Lie  ! 

A  Joy  !     A  Sigh  ! 
Flow  mingled  in  a  wave 
That  swallows,  as  the  grave, 


246  A    THRENODY. 

Both  good  and  ill ! 
Mysterious  still 
Its  surface  shining, 
Its  depths  repining  ! 

With  warring  passions  that  can  never  rest, 
The  heart  is  throbbing  in  the  troubled  breast ; 
Eager  for  joy,  it  seizes  present  pain, 
And  worships  phantom  pleasures  o'er  again. 

A  Birth  !     A  Breath  ! 
A  Toll !     A  Death  ! 
Then  yawns  the  hungry  tomb 
To  which  all  flesh  must  come, — 
And  life  is  done, 
The  goal  is  won  ! 
Dreams  all  are  ended, 
Strength  all  expended. 
In  awful  silence  now  the  dust  asleep 
Throbs  with  no  love,  nor  hears  if  friendship  weep 
The  marble  cold,  the  flower-encircled  knoll, 
Conceal  and  guard  the  palace  of  a  soul. 

A  Soul !     A  Sin  ! 

Ah,  how  I     Ah,  when 
Shall  these  disparted  be  ? 
What  holy  ministry 


A   THRENODY.  247 

Shall  work  the  cure, 
And  make  Faith  sure 
That  piteous  Heaven 
Death's  hold  hath  riven? 
A  loving  Presence  shines  upon  our  sight — 
Incarnate  Truth  diffusing  living  light ! 


HESPERION. 


The  day's  great  portals  slowly  close, 
Swung  by  the  fairy-fingered  hours, 

And  evening's  colors,  flaked  with  rose, 
Wave  from  the  caps  of  cloudy  towers. 

The  wreathing  winds  are  hushed  to  rest, 
Pillowed  in  snowy  cloud-fleece  fair; 

Dark  night  has  bared  her  ebon  breast, 
And  set  her  jewels  in  her  hair. 


The  soft,  low-beaming  star  of  even 
Woos  with  a  kiss  the  flying  day, 

Till  the  far-reaching  blue  of  heaven 
Blushes  beneath  its  mantle  gray. 

The  moon,  pale  abbess  of  the  sky, 
Peers  from  her  cloudy  cloister  bars, 

And  kneels  neath  heaven's  arches  high, 
Counting  her  rosary  of  stars. 


SUMMER  TIME. 


All  the  day 
Bees  are  humming  in  the  clover  ; 

Flowers  gay, 
Blooming  all  the  wide  fields  over ; 

Summer  sky, 
Laughing  at  the  babbling  river 

Grain-fields  high, 
With  the  truant  breezes  quiver ; 

Early  moon, 
Rising  in  the  blushing  even ; 

Taper  stars, 
In  the  altar  arch  of  heaven  : 


Kisses  sweet, 
Stolen  from  the  willing  maiden ; 

Whispered  vows, 
With  life's  early  fragrance  laden  ; 


250  .         SUMMER  TIME. 

Lazily 
Bees  are  humming  in  the  clover 

Well-a-clay, 
Summer  time  will  soon  be  over. 


A  YEAR  AGO. 


A  year  ago, 
Beyond  the  meadow's  ruined  stile, 

We  gathered  flowers 

Through  summer  hours ; 
I  loved  you  dearly  for  the  while, 

A  year  ago. 

A  year  ago 
Your  love  was  like  the  violets  true ; 

But  winter  white 

Hath  brought  its  blight ; 
Your  heart  is  not  the  heart  I  knew 

A  vear  ago. 


EDITH  COOKE. 

[Authoress.] 

A  THRUSH'S  SONG. 


Underneath  a  leafy  cover, 

Green  with  morn  ing- wealth  of  June, 
Wanting  still,  like  gift  of  lover, 

Craving  even  greater  boon, 

Deeper  chords  of  light  to   perfect  summer's  fullness, 
love's  high  noon ; 

Just  apart  from  all  the  glitter 

Of  a  busy  crystal  world, 
Where,  amid  quick  human  twitter, 
Leaping  shuttle  wrought  bright  fancies,  girded  wheels 
obedient  whirled ; 

Just  a  little  from  the  glimmer, 

From  the  footfalls'  tuneless  tread, 
With  the  distance  ever  dimmer, 

Rose,  so  calm  o'ershadowed, 

Sound  of  lusty  drum  and  hautboy,  with  clear  flute  voice 
interlaid. 


A  THRUSH'S  SONG.  253 

Notes  exultant,  loud  outpouring, 

Chant  of  nations,  lightly  bound 
With  frail  melody,  uproaring 

On  the  people,  gathered  round, 

Resting  from  the  glare  a  little,  from  the  wearing  light 
and  sound. 

Ears  of  loyal  Britons  tingling, 

Hark'ning  there,  "  God  save  the  Queen ;" 
Erin's  children's  tears  commingling 
At  "  The  Wearing  of  the  Green," 

Thinking  of  a  loveless  bondage,  truer  trust  that  might 
have  been. 

Sounds  of  wrathful  people  seeming 

Storming  through  the  "Marseillaise," 
Stirred  a  land,  nigh  dead  in  dreaming, 
Through  Hortense's  song  of  praise, 
Through  its  wailing  sadness  tolling  bells  of  old  chival- 
ric  days. 

Through  sad  France's  slumber  breaking 

Germany's  triumphant  hymn. 
Amid  people's,  eager  waking, 

Watching  Rhine-lights  growing  dim, 
Hearing   clear   a   weary    nation    struggling   sore   with 
spectres  grim. 


254 


In  the  nations'  anthems  swelling, 

Ever  twanged  some  chord  of  wrong ; 
Broken  notes  in  anguish  welling, 

Even  in  our  starlit  song — 

Shadowy  notes  from  swamp  and  prairie  mingling  with 
the  suffering  throng. 

Stilled  at  last  the  music's  clamour, 
Drum  and  hautboy  laid  to  rest, 
Softly  through  the  silence'  glamour 
Stole  the  light  wind  of  the  west, 

Gently   parted  the  green  branches,  tenderly  each  leaf 
caressed. 

And  a  sudden  thrill  of  sweetness, 
Mellow,  careless,  glad  and  clear, 
Love's  noon-song  in  its  completeness, 

Poured  in  peaceful  nature's  ear, 

From  a  thrush's  throat  of  silver — happy  song  without 
one  tear 

Fell  like  precious,  heav'n-dropped  token 

'Mid  the  elements  of  strife, 
'Mid  the  melodies,  grief-broken, 

Blare  of  trumpet,  shriek  of  fife 

Only  with  undarkened  blessings  was  the  thrush's  sing- 
ing rife. 


A  THRUSH'S  SONG.  255. 

Where  the  ways  were  broad  and  ordered 

England's  Indian  blossoms  flamed  ; 
Here,  where  guarding  thickets  bordered, 

Bloom  of  May  June's  sunshine  claimed, 
Lifting,  'mid  the  throngs  of  people,  glance,  half- fearing, 
half-ashamed ; 

Trembling  at  the  cymbals  crashing 

Through  the  ancient  solitude, 
Till  the  thrush's  sweetness  flashing, 
With  its  wild- wood  joy  imbued, 

Seemed  a  covenant  from  heaven,  arc  of  promise,  rain- 
bow-hued. 

In  the  upper  silence  singing, 
Hidden  minstrel,  unafraid, 
In  the  sunlit  branches,  swinging, 

By  the  west  wind,  whispering,  swayed, 
All  the  lower  tumult  silenced  in  the  clear,  blue  depths 
o'erhead ; 

Whence  the  peace  of  heaven,  descending, 

Filled  the  bird's  song,  true  and  clear, 
Lightsome  duty  sweetness  lending, 

Joy  o'erbrimming  in  its  cheer, 

Freedom    on   his   pinions   resting,   sunshine   soft,    and 
heaven  near. 


256 


Careless  strength  and  free  heart  blending 

In  each  note's  melodious  mirth, 

Calm  within  a  pure  soul  bending, 

Praising  for  its  heavenly  birth, 

For  its  gift  of  soaring  pinions,  lightening  so  the  bonds 
of  earth. 

With  that  clear  and  sudden  sweetness 

Sober  fancies  swept  along, 
And  its  wild-wood,  perfect  muteness 

Seemed  our  country's  truer  song, 
Sunshine  soft,  and  heaven  near  it,  and  no  undertone  of 


So,  methought,  her  clear  voice  ringing, 

Should  in  strength  of  freedom  rise, 
With  the  sweetness  of  its  singing, 

Every  evil  exorcise; 

Blessing  for  her  children  winning  through  her  nearness 
to  the  skies. 


PHILIP  FKENEAU. 

(CLASS  OF  "  1771.") 

THE  INDIAN. 


Author  of  several  volumes  of  Poems. 
[From  Grisu'old's  American  Poets.'] 

In  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said, 
I  still  my  old  opinion  keep ; 

The  posture  that  we  give  the  dead 
Points  out  the  soul's  eternal  sleep. 

Not  so  the  ancients  of  these  lands, 
The  Indian,  when  from  life  released 

Again  is  seated  with  his  friends, 
And  shares  again  the  joyous  feast. 

His  imaged  birds,  and  painted  bowl, 
And  ven'son  for  a  journey  dressed, 

Bespeak  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
Activity  that  knows  no  rest. 
R 


258  THE   INDIAN. 

By  midnight  moons  o'er  moistening  dews, 
In  vestments  for  the  chase  arrayed, 

The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues, 
The  hunter  and  the  deer — a  shade. 


JOHN  T.  DUFFIELD. 

PSALM  XC. 


Author  of  metrical  version  of  the  Psalms,  some  of  which  have 
been  adopted  into  our  Hynmology. 

1. 

Lord  !  in  all  generations  Thou 
Our  dwelling-place  liast  been  ; 

Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth, 
Before  the  world  was  seen  : 


2. 

Or  ever  Thou  hadst  formed  the  earth, 
Or  spread  the  heavens  abroad, 

From  everlasting,  Lord,  Thou  art 
To  everlasting,  God. 


3. 
Back  to  destruction  and  to  dust, 

Thou  turnest  man  again  ; 
To  all  our  mortal  race  Thou  say'st, 

u  Return,  ye  sons  of  men." 


260  PSALM    XC. 

4. 

A  thousand  years — to  us  so  vast — 
O  Lord  !   are  in  Thy  sight 

As  yesterday  when  it  is  past, 
And  as  a  watch  of  night. 

5. 

As  with  a  sweeping  flood,  our  race 

Thou  carriest  away ; 
They  are  asleep,  yea,  like  the  grass 

That  grows  at  morn  are  they. 

6. 
At  morn  it  groweth  up  and  blooms, 

At  eve  cut  down,  doth  fade ; 
O  Lord  !   Thine  anger  us  consumes, 

Thy  wrath  makes  us  afraid. 


7. 
All  our  iniquity  and  sin 

Before  Thee  Thou  dost  place ; 
Our  secret  sins  thou  settest  in 

The  brightness  of  Thy  face. 


PSALM    XC.  261 

8. 
In  Thy  consuming  wrath,  behold 

Our  days  waste  to  their  end  ; 
And  as  a  tale  that  has  been  told, 

So  all  our  years  we  spend. 

9. 
The  days  of  all  the  years  we  see, 

Are  three-score  years  and  ten  ; 
And  if  by  strength  they  four-score  be, 

Their  strength  itself  is  vain. 

10. 
For  it  in  labor  is  employed, 

And  sorrow  every  day, 
'Tis  soon  cut  off,  we  are  destroyed, 

And  swiftly  fly  away. 


11. 
Who  of  Thine  auger  knows  the  power  ? 

Who  can  endure  Thy  rod  ? 
According  even  to  Thy  fear, 

So  is  Thy  wrath,  O  God. 


262  PSALM    XC. 

12. 
Teach  us — since  death  is  ever  nigh- 

To  number  all  our  days, 
That  we  may  earnestly  apply 

Our  hearts  to  wisdom's  ways. 


CHARLES  W.  SHIELDS. 

(CLASS  OF  "  1844.") 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIBERTY. 


O  Liberty  !  again  thy  story, 

Which  oft  before  thy  sons  have  told, 
The  rolling  cycles  swell  with  glory, 

The  story  that  can  ne'er  grow  old : 
How  Truth  and  Right  have  battPd  Error, 
How  patriots  rush'd  to  martyrs'  graves, 
How  freemen  scorn'cl  the  chains  of  slaves, 
And  tyrants  fell  with  rage  and  terror. 
Rejoice,  O  Liberty ! 

Take  courage  from  the  past : 
Press  on  !  press  on  !  till  victory 
Shall  crown  thy  brows  at  last. 

Lo !  on  these  western  waters  drifted, 
In  flying  bands  across  the  main, 

A  chosen  race  of  heroes  sifted, 

As  from  the  chaff  is  threshM  the  grain : 

They  come,  the  van  of  eastern  sages ; 


264  THE   TRIUMPH    OF   LIBERTY. 

They  bear  the  richest  spoils  of  Time, 
And  hail  the  new,  imperial  clime 
Adorn'd  of  old  for  riper  ages. 

L  O 

Rejoice,  O  Liberty  ! 

Hark !  hark  !  what  groans  and  shouts  are  blend- 
ing! 

New  England  calls  with  struggling  breath  ! 
Virginia's  tongue  of  flame  is  sending 

The  cry  of  " Liberty  or  Death!" 
While  Jersey  sees  the  war-clouds  lower, 

Her  face  by  hireling  legions  marr'd, 

Her  dauntless  brow  with  battles  scarr'd, 
Till  victory  gleams  on  Nassau's  tower. 
Rejoice,  O  Liberty ! 

Ah  !  bitter,  bitter  and  defiant 

The  surges  of  the  civic  strife, 
Ere  like  a  full-arm'd  infant  giant, 

The  nation  struggled  into  life  ! 
And  long,  O  long  shall  be  recited, 

What  glories  shroud  the  fallen  brave, 

How  virtue  blossoms  from  their  grave, 
In  arts  increased  and  states  united. 
Rejoice,  O  Liberty  ! 


THE   TRIUMPH    OF   LIBERTY.  265 

Nor  yet,  O  Liberty,  is  ended 

Thy  march  of  glorious  agony ; 
Not  till  all  tongues  and  peoples  blended 

At  length  acclaim,  The  world  is  free ! 
Not  till  one  nation  to  another 

Around  the  globe  shall  roll  the  strain, 

The  West  rejoin  the  East  again, 
And  man  hail  every  man  his  brother. 
Rejoice,  O  Liberty ! 

O  Liberty!  then  be  thy  story 

Still,  still  with  quenchless  fervor  told 
As  rolling  cycles  swell  its  glory  ; 

The  story  that  can  ne'er  grow  old, 
While  yet  the  radiant  face  of  Nature 
Is  darkened  by  a  single  slave, 
As  long  as  Virtue  claims  the  brave, 
And  man  hath  faith  in  his  Creator. 
Rejoice,  O  Liberty ! 

Take  courage  from  the  past ; 
Press  on  !  press  on  !  till  victory 
Shall  crown  thy  brows  at  last ! 


STEPHEN  ALEXANDER 

THE  NATION'S  HOPE. 


O  second  Land  of  Promise, 

E'en  of  this  latter  day, 
A  promise  that  in  mercies 

God's  finger  did  portray. 

Land  in  whose  wondrous  progress 
Was  His  right  arm  revealed, 

Who  did  her  hosts  encompass 
"  With  favor  as  a  shield." 

Land  of  God's  preparation, 

As  centuries  rolled  on  ; 
Scene  of  his  great  salvation, 

For  centuries  to  come. 


Land  thence,  of  God's  adoption 
Where  he  designs  to  raise 

Through  many  generations, 
A  Temple  to  his  praise. 


267 


Land  of  the  pilgrim  exiled, 
Land  of  the  would-be-free, 

Land  of  the  open  Bible, 
Thence  land  of  liberty. 

Land  of  God's  benediction 
In  all  that  makes  us  great, 

Where  duty  joined  to  privilege, 
In  union  stand  complete. 

The  light  of  her  example 
Has  flashed  across  the  sea : 

Just  where  the  burdened  nations 
Are  struggling  to  be  free. 

And  they,  in  that  rejoicing, 
E'en  now  begin  to  raise 

For  disenthralled  religion 

The  voice  of  prayer  and  praise. 


To  take  complete  possession 
Of  this  inheritance, 

Behold,  in  long  succession, 
A  peaceful  host  advance. 


268 


To  plant  the  rose  of  Sharon 
Through  all  the  prairies  wild 

The  lesson  of  the  lilies, 

Tell  to  each  saddened  child. 


And  Gilead's  balm  to  carry 
Unto  each  nook  and  glen — 

Commission  sanitary, 

Commission  Christian  then. 


And  where  the  miner's  treasure 
Is  hailed  with  gladdened  eyes, 

The  priceless  pearl  to  proffer, 
But  proffer  without  price. 

Till  on  the  Nation's  Highway 
God's  temples  mark  the  road, 

And  from  each  mountain  by-way 
Sounds  household  praise  to  God. 


Till  from  the  stormy  ocean 
That  bounds  us  on  the  east, 

Unto  that  World  of  waters 
That  terminates  the  west. 


269 


And  from  the  Central  Valley, 
And  o'er  our  broad  domain, 

Each  generation  passing, 
Shall  to  the  next  proclaim 

The  wonders,  of  his  dealing, 
Who  did  our  fathers  lead ; 

His  grace  for  grace  revealing, 
In  every  lime  of  need. 

His  mighty  acts  tell  over, 
And  ne'er  His  love  forget, 

Who  in  His  mercy  saved  us, 
For  sacred  union  yet. 


HUMOROUS  POETRY. 


C.  G.  LELAND. 
DIE  SCHOENE  WITTWE. 


THE    POOTY   VIDDER. 


[From  the  Hans  Breitmari's  Ballads.] 

Dat  pooty  liddle  vidder 
Vot  we  doshn't  vish  to  name, 
Ish  still  leben  on  dat  liddle  shtreet, 
A-doin  shuss  de  same. 
De  glerks  around t  de  gorners 
Somedimes  goes  round  to  zee 
How  de  tarlin  liddle  vitchy  ees, 
Und  ask  er  how  she  pe. 
Dey  lofes  her  ver'  goot  liquoer, 
Dey  loves  her  liddle  shtore; 
Dey  loves  her  liddle  paby, 
But  dey  lofes  die  vidder  more. 
To  talk  mih  dat  shveet  vidder, 
Ven  she  hands  das  lager  round, 
Vill  make  der  shap  dat  does  id 
Pe  happy,  ve'll  be  pound. 
s 


274  DIE   SCHOENE    WITTWE. 

Dat  ish  if  ve  can  veil  pelieve 
De  glerks  vat  drinks  das  peer, 
Who  goes  in  dere  for  nodings  elshe, 
Put  simply  for  to  zee  her. 


O,  « MEIN  FRACK  1ST  IM  PFAND-HAUS." 


Mine  tress-goat  is  shpouted,  mine  tress-goat  aint  here, 
While  you  in  your  ball  robes  go  splurgin,  mein  tear ! 
To  barties  mit  you  I'm  infited  you  know, 
Boot  my  pest  coat  ish  shponted — mine  poots  are  no  go. 
To  hell  mit  mine  Onkel — dat  rasgally  knave  ! 
Dis  pledgin  und  pawn  in  lias  mate  me  his  slafe. 
Ven  I  dink  of  his  sign-bost,  den  dree  dimes  I  bawl, 
While  mine  black  pants  hang  lonely  und  dark  on  de 
wall. 


Goot  night  to  dees  fine  lofe,  so  lofely  und  rich, 
Mein  tress-goat  is  shpouted,  gonfount  efery  stitch  ! 
I  dinks  dat  old  Satan  troo  all  mine  affairs, 
Lofe,  business,  und  fun,  has  been  sewin  his  tares, 
My  tress-goat  ish  shpouted — mine  tress-goat  aint  here, 
While  you  in  your  glorie  go  shinin,  mein  tear ; 
Und  de  luck  of  der  teufol  ish  loose  ofer  all, 
While  mine  black  pants  hang  lonely  und  dark  on  de 
wall. 


HANS  BREITMAN'S   IDEA  OF   "BOLITICS." 


Dese  ish  de  brincibles  I  holts, 

Und  dose  in  vitch  I  run: 
Dey  ish  fixed  firm  and  immutaple 

Ash  te  course  of  de  ternal  sun ; 
Boot  if  you  ton't  tibbrove  of  dem — 

Blease  nod  ice  vot  I  say, 
I  shall  only  pe  too  happy 

To  alter  them  right  a  fay. 


PLAIN   LANGUAGE   FROM   THE   IRRECON 

CILABLES,  CONCERNING  A  RECENT 

UNPLE  ASANTN  ESS. 


Which  we  wish  to  remark, 
And  our  language  is  squa  ah, 

Tliat  a  man  which  is  dark, 
And  has  kinks  in  his  hai-ah, 

Isn't  coming  to  lectures  with  "  we  uns," 
And  "we  uns"  consent  to  be  thea-ah. 


Which  the  lecture  was  that 

On  the  '-'Science  of  Mind," 
And  our  hearts  as  we  sat 

Were  at  peace  with  mankind, 
When  who  should  come  in  but  a  nigg-ah 

And  squat  on  a  seat  just  behind. 

We  looked  up  at  Mac, 

And  he  rose  with  a  sigh, 
And  remarked — its  a  fac' — 

Well,  I  wish  I  may  die 


278  PLAIN    LANGUAGE,  &C. 

If  I'm  going  to  sit  here  with  a  nigg-ah, 
And  we  left  without  any  reply. 

We  repeat  the  remark, 

And  our  language  is  squa-ah, 

That  a  man  which  is  dark, 
And  has  kinks  in  his  hai-ah, 

Isn't  coming  to  College  with  "  we  uns," 
And  "  we  uns  "  consent  to  be  thea-ah. 


R.  E.  A. 
WHAT  SHE  SAID  ON  THE  WAY  HOME. 


AFTER   THE    POPULAR   SCIENCE    LECTURE. 


Yes,  I  think  it  was  perfectly  splendid — 

I'm  sure  I  feel  awfully  wise, 
With  my  head  full  of  glaciers  and  icebergs, 

Of  such  a  ridiculous  size; 
And  the  masses  of  what  do  you  call  it — 

The  dirt  that  is  ever  so  old — 
And  came  down  on  the  ice  to  New  Jersey, 

It  must  have  been  horribly  cold. 

The  views,  too,  were  perfectly  lovely  ? 

Especially  Mont  Blanc  and  the  Alps; 
Though  the  last  ones  were  perfectly  frightful- 

Those  men  with  the  clubs  and  the  scalps. 
Well,  maybe  they  didn't  have  scalps — 

They  frightened  me  all  the  same, 
And  that  animal — wasn't  he  horrid. 

The — what— did— he— say— was-his— name  ? 


280  WHAT   SHE   SAID   ON   THE   WAY   HOME. 

O  !  I  perfectly  dote  upon  science : 

I  think  it's  just  jolly  good  fun  : 
And  I  wish  I  were  going  on  your  expe- 

Dition,  with  knapsack  and  gun. 
Mamma  says  I'm  growing  strong-minded, 

And  should  cut  off  my  hair,  and  all  that, 
Though  eye-glasses  would  not  become  me, 

And  how  could  I  keep  on  my  hat  ? 

Here's  the  end  of  our  walk — Good  night ! 

You  may  call  Wednesday  evening,  Rob, 
And  we'll  talk  of  the  Glacial  Epoch, 

And  the  wonderful  thingumabob. 


D.   M. 

(CLASS  OF  "1829.") 

VARIATIONS  ON  THE  C  STRING. 


Old  Munclus  shudders  in  his  ribs 
And  ponders  in  his  mists, 

When  millionaires  with  patent  nibs 
Prepare  financial  lists. 


For  he  has  felt  the  cable  thrown 

Around  his  mighty  ribs, 
And  dreads  the  sharp,  magnetic  tone 

Of  these  commercial  nibs. 


The  Psalmist,  in  his  wisdom,  said, 

"  Deep  calleth  unto  deep." 
Three  thousand  years  hath  he  been  dead ; 

How  green  his  sayings  keep. 


282  VARIATIONS   ON   THE   C  STRING. 

And  modern  genius  idly  sings 
Of  "  music  of  the  spheres." 

Little  imagining  what  strings 
Are  twisting  with  the  years. 

The  daring  mariner  long  erst 

Plumbed  ocean's  treacherous  bed ; 

Lo,  here  the  soundings  lie  immersed, 
Conversing  with  the  lead.* 


Thus  science  brings  the  teeming  womb 

Of  .Nature  to  the  birth, 
And  crowns  with  intellectual  bloom 

Her  princes  in  the  earth. 

Type. 


J.  ADDISON  ALEXANDER 

THE  RECONSTRUCTION  OF  SOCIETY. 


AIR.—"  The  University  of  Gottingen." 

When  others,  once  as  poor  as  I, 
Are  growing  rich,  because^  they  try, 
While  my  capacity  and  will 
Give  me  a  taste  for  sitting  still ; 
When  all  around  me  are  at  work, 
While  I  prefer  to  act  the  Turk, 
Or  spend  in  drinking  or  at  play 
The  greater  part  of  every  day ; 
Arid,  as  the  upshot  of  it,  feel 
That  I  must  either  starve  or  steal ; 
The  only  remedy  I  see, 
For  such  abuses,  is  the  re- 
Construction  of  society, 

Construction  of  society. 


When  others  know  what  I  know  not, 
Or  bear  in  mind  what  I  forgot 
An  age  ago,  and  dare  to  speak 


284  THE   RECONSTRUCTION   OF   SOCIETY. 

In  praise  of  Latin  and  of  Greek, 
As  if  a  tongue  unknown  to  me 
Of  any  earthly  use  could  be ; 
When  bookworms  are  allowed  to  rule 
In  University  and  School, 
While  I,  because  I  am  a  fool, 
Or,  happep,  by  the  merest  chance, 
To  have  learned  nothing  save  to  dance, 
Am  set  aside,  or  thrust  away, 
Or  not  allowed  to  have  my  say  ; 
The  only  remedy  I  see 
For  such  abuses,  is  the  re- 
Construction  of  society, 

Construction  of  society. 

When  judges  frown  and  parsons  scold, 
Because  a  gentleman  makes  bold 
To  laugh  at  superstitious  saws, 
And  violate  oppressive  laws ; 
When  pinching  want  will  not  atone 
For  taking  what  is  not  your  own ; 
When  public  sentiment  proscribes 
The  taking  of  judicial  bribes, 
And  with  indignant  scorn  regards 
The  gentleman  who  cheats  at  cards ; 


THE   RECONSTRUCTION   OF   SOCIETY.  285 

When  men  of  wit  no  longer  dare 
To  tell  a  lie,  or  even  swear ; 
The  only  remedy  I  see 
For  such  abuses,  is  the  re- 
Construction  of  society, 

Construction  of  society. 


When,  after  turning  round  and  round, 
And  occupying  every  ground : 
As  preacher,  poet,  rhetorician, 
Philanthropist  and  politician, 
Ascetic,  saint,  and  devotee, 
Neologist  and  pharisee, 
I  seek  in  vain  to  gain  respect 
By  founding  a  new-fangled  sect, 
And  find  the  world  so  cautious  grown 
That  I  must  be  the  sect  alone ; 
The  only  remedy  I  see 
For  such  abuses,  is  the  re- 
Construction  of  society, 

Construction  of  society. 


When,  over  and  above  the  scorn 

Of  men,  which  leaves  me  thus  forlorn, 

I  find  an  enemy  within 


286  THE   RECONSTRUCTION   OF   SOCIETY. 

Who  dares  to  talk  to  me  of  sin, 
And  whispers,  even  in  my  dreams, 
That  my  disorganizing  schemes 
Can  never  conjure  black  to  white, 
Or  clearly  prove  that  wrong  is  right, 
A  nuisance  that  can  never  cease 
Till  conscience  learns  to  hold  its  peace, 
And  men  no  longer  can  be  awed 
By  apprehensions  of  a  God — 
Ah !  these  are  griefs  for  winch  I  see 
No  solace  even  in  the  re- 
Constructioii  of  society, 

Construction  of  society. 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  DREAMS. 


How  evanescent  and  marine 
Are  thy  chaotic  uplands  seen, 

O  ever  sub-lapsarian  moon. 
A  thousand  caravans  of  light 
Were  not  so  spherically  bright, 

Nor  ventilated  half  so  soon. 


Methought  I  stood  upon  a  cone 
Of  solid  allopathic  stone, 

And  gazed  athwart  the  breezy  skies ; 
When  lo !  from  yonder  hemisphere, 
A  vapid  atrabil lions  tear 

Was  shed  by  pantomimic  eyes. 

Adieu,  Miasma, -cries  a  voice, 
In  which  Aleppo  might  rejoice, 

So  peri-focal  were  its  tones. 
Adieu,  Miasma,  think  of  me 
Beyond  the  Antinomian  sea 

That  covers  my  pellucid  bones. 


288  TO   THE   SPIRIT   OF   DREAMS. 

Again — again  my  bark  is  tossed 
Upon  the  raging  holycaust 

Of  that  acidulated  sea:* 
And  diapasons  pouring  down 
With  lunar  caustic  join  to  drown, 

My  transcendental  epopee, 


HUGH  LUDLOW. 

TO  A  RED-HEADED  GIRL. 


All  thy  curls  are  winding  stairs, 
Where  ray  passion  nobly  dares, 
To  mount  higher,  still  and  higher, 
Though  the  staircase  be  on  fire. 

T 


THE  JOLLY  FELLOW. 


I. 

There  was  a  jolly  fellow,  who  lived  about  the  town, 
He  disapproved  of  toddy,  and  so — he  put  it  down; 
He  attended  public  dinners  for  fun  and  freedom's  sake, 
And,  like  a  second  polycarp,  went  smiling  to  the  steak. 


II. 

His  vests  were  irreproachable,  his  trowsers  of  the  kind 
Adown  whose  steep  declivities  hound  rushes  after  hind ; 
They  were  a  speaking  pattern,  all  the  tailors  would  agree, 
But,  O,  alas !  they  were  too  tight  to  speak  coherently. 


III. 

Up  half  a  dozen  pair  of  stairs  our  hero  went  to  bed, 
With  nothing  but  the  angels  and  the  rafters  o'er  his  head ; 
And  so,  although  he  loved  to  be  where  brandy  vapor 

curled, 
There  never  was  a  man  who  lived  so  much  above  the 

world. 


THE   JOLLY    FELLOW.  291 

IV. 

No  boards  of  all  the  roof  were  known  a  meeting  e'er  to 

hold, 

And  so  the  room  was  nothing  but  a  trap  for  catching  cold  ; 
There  was  a  door — the  carpenter  had  left  the  lock  be. 

hind ; 
It  must  have  slipt  him,  as  he  had  no  "Locke  upon  the 

Mind." 

V. 

Well  plastered  were  the  rooms  below,  though  that's  an- 
other story, 

But  now  our  hero's  fate  was  sealed  and  not  his  dormitory  ; 

When  midnight  played  upon  his  bones,  airs  far  from 
operatic, 

What  wonder  that  an  attic  room  should  make  a  man 
rheumattic. 

VI. 

No  dome  was  there,  no  window  stained  with  Peter  and 

the  keys, 

But  every  winter  brought  a  vast  redundancy  of  freeze  ; 
Each  empty  sash  groaned  dolefully,  as  if  it  felt  the  pain, 
By  some  unearthly  grammarye  a-coming  back  again. 


292  THE   JOLLY   FELLOW. 

VII. 

Our  hero's  uncle  used  to  dye,  to  keep  himself  alive, 
His  shop  was  down  in  Nassau  street,  at  No.  45 ; 
But  when,  as  every  dier  must,  he  found  his  colors  fail, 
Before  he  kicked  the  bucket,  he  turned  a  little  pale. 


VIII. 

His  dandy  friends  grew  fewer,  and,  alas  !  he  found  be- 
tween 

Their  leaving  and  their  falling  off,  no  summer  inter- 
vene; 

His  heart  was  broken,  and  at  last  this  fanciest  of  blades, 

Who  used  to  flare  in  scarlet  vests,  preferred  the  darker 
shades. 


IX. 

One  morning  from  a  frowning  cliff  he  jumped  into  the 

sea, 
Crying,  "  Oh !  thou  mighty  dying  vat,  behold  I  come 

to  thee ; " 

You  think  him  green,  and  as  to  that  I  really  cannot  tell, 
But  if  he  is,  it  is  the  kind  they  call  invisible. 


THE    JOLLY    FELLOW.  293 

X. 

But,  oh  !  how  vain  to  try  to  change  the  color  of  his  days, 
For  he  could  not  conceal  himself  behind  his  screen  of 

bays  ; 
No  yarn,   of  all  that  he  might  spin,  could   hide  his 

uncle's  line, 
For  that  worthy  was  not  one  of  those  who  dye  and  give 

no  sign. 


ERRATA. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

Page  X,  line  22,  Our  Dead  belongs  to  second  line  below,  as  anonymous 

Page  X,  line  23,  for  133  read  131. 

Page  XI,  line  17,  for  Alamby  read  Alamby  M. 

Page  XIII,  line  22,  for  D.  M.  read  J.  D.  M. 

POEMS. 

Page  1,  line  2,  fill  blank  with  1845. 

Page  29,  line  8,  for  with  read  ah  ! 

Page  29,  line  9,  for  thee  read  thou. 

Page  31,  line  1,  prefix  anonymous. 

Page  31,  line  17,  for  silenceniatus  read  silence. 

Page  34,  line  1,  for  palid  read  pallid. 

Page  75,  line  1,  for  Phillip  read  Philip. 

Page  82,  line  2,  for  Coblentry  read  Coblentz. 

Page  108,  line  1,  for  Breckenridye  read  Breckinrulat . 

Page  123,  line  6,  for  Ae  read  6e. 

Page  131,  line  1,  prefix  anonymous. 

Page  159,  line  1,  for  Pearson  read  Pier  son. 

Page  172,  line  1,  for  Alamby  read  Alamby  M. 

Page  216,  line  2,  for  now;  read  nor. 

Page  219,  line  1,  for  Alfred  D.  read  Alfred  A. 

Page  243,  line  9,  after  shine  supply  the. 

Page  281,  line  1,  for  D.  M.  read  ,7.  D.  M. 


YC  1 0b6>6 


943279 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


